


Civil Service

by PlayerPiano



Category: Corpse Bride (2005)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-25 01:37:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20368501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlayerPiano/pseuds/PlayerPiano
Summary: AU. Victoria never arrived at the church that fateful night, and Victor and Emily are married in the Land of the Dead. However, there's a little snag in Victor's comfortable afterlife, which has consequences he hadn't imagined. It's a story of love and loss, ghosts and grief, and how three afterlives come together.





	1. Chapter 1

Civil Service

When Victor had taken his long, deep sip of the Wine of Ages, he thought he was leaving earthly concerns behind. From what he'd seen of the Land of the Dead, he'd naturally assumed his afterlife would simply be a lighter, freer version of his breathing life.

In some ways, it was. Being dead wasn't so bad, Victor had found. The actual dying had been awful—feeling his heart chug and stop, the world going dim around the edges, that last fleeting moment of panic, of wanting to cling to life, of knowing it was too late, and then a moment of profound darkness. He tried not to remember that part. It had been brief, but still terrifying.

Then he'd opened his eyes again, and he was fine. Well, apart from being dead. He'd gone blue, a handsome shade of cobalt that made him think of his mother's prized collection of Bristol glassware. And Emily. Standing before him, her hands on his shoulders to steady him, an expression filled with love and hope and wistfulness all mixed together. She was beautiful. And she loved him. He'd taken her hands in his, and had fallen a little bit more in love himself. Hand in hand, they'd led the way back down to the land of the dead, leaving the living behind without too many backward glances.

Eternity wouldn't be so bad, not if he was sharing it with Emily.

She was so lovely and fun, so simple and uncomplicated. Victor found himself becoming less complicated, too. It was nice. It really was. Sometimes he did miss his parents, had wondered about them, how they'd taken the news of the odd circumstances of his death. He missed food. And butterflies. But those thoughts were fleeting. He had Emily to focus on now. Forever.

Time was a funny thing when one was dead. It didn't really matter any longer, so there was no real point in keeping track. All he knew was that he'd been dead long enough that his eyes were beginning to look sunken and his organs were starting to go (funny how death had rather cured his squeamish streak), but he still had all of his skin. And he'd not been married long enough for the bloom to go off the rose.

Could the bloom ever go off a dead rose? Victor never allowed himself to reflect too much on questions like that.

There was something sweet about a relationship with a woman that was completely free of any sort of complexity or real consequence. They were dead, what else could possibly happen? Everything was simply...nice. Romantic. Friendly. There was a lot of laughter, a lot of music and dancing, but not much else. They would go for long walks. Time wasn't a concern, so they really didn't think in terms of passing it. No days and nights to give shape to it, no sunsets or sunrises. Just an existence. However, with Emily, this was at least a nice existence. They were hardly ever apart. Most often they could be found at the piano in the Ball and Socket. Other times, when Emily kindly indulged Victor's need for quiet and space, they walked all about the land of the dead.

All of this suited Victor just fine. The promise of anything more profound than "nice" had been stolen from him, so he focused on being happy with his circumstances, with a woman who really loved him. He liked not having complications of any sort, including those of the flesh. Being dead, there was none of that business to worry about—and while he'd been alive, it had worried him plenty.

Even so, deep down, Victor wished he'd had the opportunity to suffer a few complications of the flesh at least once or twice before he'd died. And that wish was almost always accompanied by the memory of Victoria holding his hand, brushing him with her fingers. Leaning toward him, expectant, waiting to be kissed...

Victoria. He simply didn't allow himself to think about her. It was a conscious effort, no matter how betrayed and deeply hurt he'd been. Despite everything, despite his being dead, despite his being married, he couldn't forget her. He couldn't think badly of her, not entirely, no matter what she'd done. But he couldn't bear to think of all of the life that she represented, all that he'd given up. For a good reason, undoubtedly. Yet he'd think of her eyes, of holding her hand, and he'd begin to forget what that good reason was...

And then he'd remember that he was married. Married to a sweet woman who loved him and needed him. And he was dead. Completely out of reach. And, worst of all, that not a bit of what had passed between them had mattered to Victoria.

So he'd shake his feelings off, have a friendly drink with Mayhew, perhaps a game of darts with the Generals, play some piano, and then dance with his lovely bride, whirling her around the Ball and Socket. He was still a bit clumsy and unsure about it, but he was learning. And at least he didn't have to worry about hurting Emily whenever he accidentally stepped on her feet. He'd stopped worrying about a lot of things, actually.

Funny, he still thought of her as a bride, not really as his wife. After all, there was no house to keep up, as the dead didn't need homes. There was no worrying about money or children or the future, for none of those existed. There was no future. Just free, easy existence. There was nothing to worry about.

Until the day when Elder Gutknecht made a rare appearance in the square, catching Victor and Emily as they strolled arm in arm past the statue. Elder Gutknecht had some news to share. They'd all three made for the Ball and Socket, where Elder Gutknecht's appearances were even rarer. At a small table near the piano, Elder Gutknecht had explained to Victor a new snag in his afterlife.

"Work?" Victor asked, confused. Elder Gutknecht nodded his old skeletal head. "But sir, I'm dead. Isn't work, well...more suited to-?" And he pointed one finger toward the ceiling in a reference to the Land of the Living.

"Yes, my boy," said the Elder, his voice quavery and kind. "But I'm afraid it's all in the rules. Suicides are required to spend eternity as civil servants."

There was a pause. Emily put a hand on Victor's wrist. The skeleton who always wore dark glasses was tinkling away at the piano in that new style Victor was picking up. The sounds of tinkling glasses, laughter, and the click of billiard balls knocking together filled the space as Victor absorbed this news.

"Civil servant?" Emily echoed. Victor stayed silent, still working through Elder Gutknecht's use of the S-word. He supposed it was technically true, but all the same...he didn't think of his demise quite that way. As he sat staring into his pint glass, troubled, Emily went on, "Doesn't that mean working for the government? Have we a government?"

That last was directed at Victor, who, not having the foggiest, could only shrug. Elder Gutknecht took a healthy swig from the burbling red liquid in his goblet.

"After a fashion, my dear," he replied. He adjusted his dusty little spectacles and took on a professorial tone. "The Land of the Dead is much larger than our little community, just as the land above was much bigger than our village. And everyone living eventually joins us here. Some organization is needed for a population so large. Those who take their own lives are asked to give something back once they are here. It's something that has always been."

Victor sat back in his chair. "And since I'm a—since I—well, you know...I must work for the Land of the Dead? Forgive me, but this all sounds...well, absurd."

"Any more absurd than anything else that's happened to you lately, my boy?"

Touche, Victor thought. "What will happen if I, er, respectfully decline?" he asked carefully. Why, he was enjoying his death just as it was. He had Emily, he had Mayhew. Victor felt more at home and part of a thriving community here than he ever had Upstairs. He didn't much like the idea of being forced to work, to be away from the familiar. All of this seemed terribly unfair.

"Hm," said Elder Gutknecht, stroking his beard in thought. "I'm afraid I don't know. No one who declined has ever been seen again."

Victor's eyes widened. Emily made a little noise and put a hand to her mouth. "So there's nothing you can do?" she asked.

"I'm afraid the rules are the rules, my dear," said Elder Gutknecht. "I have bent far too many lately, I am not prepared to attempt to bend this one."

Both Victor and Emily took his meaning, and fell quiet.

"Not that it would have made a difference," Victor said at length, with a quick look at Emily, "but why didn't you mention this before?"

"My boy," Elder Gutknecht said heavily as he stood from the table and turned to walk away, "I make a habit out of not mentioning important points until it is strictly necessary to do so."

"Oh," replied Victor. For a moment after the old skeleton left, Emily and Victor sat together at the table, watching the activity buzz about them. The two little skeleton children were playing an enthusiastic game of tag. Emily watched them, smiling.

"That's all right, darling!" Emily finally said to Victor, taking hold of his arm. "It will be just like being married Upstairs, won't it? I'll even have time to set you up a coffin beside mine! I'll make it cozy, it will be lovely!" She rested her head on his shoulder briefly.

"I suppose our honeymoon is over!" she added with a laugh. Victor patted her hand.

"Yes, I suppose it is," he replied, with as much of a smile as he could muster.

So, while Emily set up coffin-keeping, Victor began his career in a nebulous region of the Land of the Dead. It was very odd for a place which seemed to operate with an odd internal logic of its own to have any sort of bureaucracy, but somehow the afterlife managed. The hallways were impossibly long and winding, the offices tiny and cramped and filled with greasy yellow light which seemed to have no source. None of the corpses who worked together chatted much. Everyone was far too busy. Also, Victor noticed, everyone in his office bore evidence of their ends. Slit wrists and throats, gunshot wounds in the temple or back of the head, ropes they had hanged themselves with still attached. Victor quickly learned it was impolite to ask or to stare, and soon enough it was simply a matter of course.

Victor's job was assistant to a Caseworker. The Caseworker was responsible for the freshly dead who were to be ghosts. Victor hadn't really thought much about ghosts, or how that sort of thing worked. He supposed the details were personal, really none of his business. Mr. Septimus was the Caseworker's name, a young man not too much older than Victor who walked with a strange limping gait. Apparently his back and legs had been broken in the purposeful fall he'd taken from a window. A kind man, nice to work for, though Victor did not know too much about him, really.

Most odd of all was how instinctively Victor understood it all. He knew when to arrive and when to go home. He only had need of his written instructions of how to get to his office his first try. It was quite convenient, a mere matter of drawing a door in the wall of the building near where he and Emily kept their coffins, and knocking on it three times. Of course he was nervous his first day, but once he became acclimated he calmed considerably. Paperwork, organizing, following the orders he was given. Not his favorite activities, but he felt he was doing good work. The longer he was there, the more he enjoyed it.

"I do feel glad to be giving back," Victor told Emily one evening. Well, he thought of it as evening, as it was when he was back from the office. They were reclining in their respective coffins, side by side in their little alleyway. "Mr. Septimus is...well, a bit overwhelmed, I think. And I believe we're doing something good, giving guidance to the recently deceased."

"Yes," Emily agreed with a smile, reaching across to take his hand, "Death can be so hard, when you're new and don't know anyone. I'm so glad you're enjoying yourself, Victor darling. Though I do miss you when you're away!"

He missed Emily, too, but that just made going back to her all the nicer. During his working time he thought of her often. Victor was thinking of Emily the next day at work quite a bit. They had plans to go to the pub when he arrived home. Poor Emily had been feeling a bit bored and neglected lately. Victor hoped to make things up with her, realizing he was away quite a lot.

He sat hunched in a squeaky chair a bit too small for him, his rickety little desk covered in papers. The whole tiny room was overflowing with overfull wooden filing cabinets, boxes filled with yet more case files, and one sad looking dead plant on a high shelf in the corner. Mr. Septimus's office door was closed, as it was most of the time. Victor's boss was usually with a client. As he did every day, Victor was sorting through a pile of new cases to hand off to Mr. Septimus.

"Mrs. William Smith," Victor read off of the topmost file. He glanced down through her vital information, listed on the front of the file. Not really his business, but he found it hard not to look at these people, and to wonder about them. Twenty years of age. How sad, he thought. From the City. Freshly dead. Ghost. Quite routine. Other known names of the deceased: "Lady Bittern."

Bittern. Victor tapped his lip and thought. Why was that name familiar...? When nothing came to mind, Victor shrugged, placed the file in the little cubby in Mr. Septimus's office door, and went back to sorting through the new arrivals.


	2. Chapter 2

2

In Victor's tiny, cramped antechamber there was a large speaker, similar to one on a phonograph, sticking out of the wall near the inner office door. It was dirty and scuffed, like everything else in the Caseworker offices, and nearly obscured by a teetering pile of paperwork waiting to go to the efficient skeleton crew in the Records Room.

"Van Dort!" came Mr. Septimus's voice through the speaker. "Are you there?"

Victor almost fell off his chair. It squeaked indignantly as he righted himself. "Yes, sir!" he called back.

"Where's this Mrs. Smith? Has she arrived yet?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Well, if she's not here soon she'll have to make another appointment," said Mr. Septimus's voice, his baritone making the speaker vibrate with every word. "I've not got all day."

"Yes, sir."

When Victor was certain that was the end, he went back to sorting through the day's paperwork. Some was old business, of course, but there were plenty of new clients to sort through. So very many lately. Up in the dozens. That was quite a lot for their coverage area, even considering that Caseworkers were stretched thin.

"Some terrible bug must be going round," he murmured to himself, stamping REJECTED on a request for a bio-excorcist from one of their clients. A soft knock on the door made him look up.

"Come in," he called. "Just mind the boxes, if you please."

The door opened carefully. A young woman stepped through, looking unsure and clutching a handful of forms. As she picked her way across the cramped space toward him, Victor rose to greet her.

Both of them stopped stock-still at precisely the same moment. Recognition came simultaneously, too, very shortly thereafter.

"Victoria," he said. It was strange, saying her name. He'd said and thought it constantly for two days, once, had thought he would spend the rest of his life saying it. And then he had had to teach himself never to say it again. And now here she was. Dead. He didn't know quite how to feel about that.

"Victor," she said in reply, her tone suggesting feelings similar to his own. She stared at him, unmoving but for her eyes, which were slowly taking him in, head to toe.

"You look different," she finally said, her gaze stopping somewhere near his chin, as though unable or unwilling to meet his eyes. Her voice was croaky and strange, with a rasp to it that he didn't remember from before. "I didn't think you'd look...so different."

Victor reached and fiddled with the knot in his moth-eaten tie, a gesture from life which he had not made in a very, very long time. It must be the light, was his first thought. The ever-present yellow did have a tendency to make him look rather hollow-cheeked and green.

"You look different, too," Victor said. For, odd and out of place as the remark was, it was also true. The Victoria of his imagination looked just as she had the last time he'd seen her. Rosy-cheeked and pretty, nicely dressed. Reaching for him. But this Victoria...if he hadn't known her eyes, he might not have recognized her.

Death had turned her skin a pale gray. The gray of ghosts, Victor had learned. It was almost as if they were coated in fine dust. Not everyone had the look, of course, but many did. And she was so thin. So gaunt-looking, with dark hollows under her eyes, her cheekbones sharp and obvious, as though she'd been ill. Was that how she'd died?

Instead of the bun he remembered, Victoria's hair was in a long, rather messy braid down her back. Tendrils escaped here and there around her face. Overall Victor had the impression only luck and willpower were keeping her hair bound at all. Victoria wore a blouse and skirt which were shapeless and plain, both dingy gray in color. Odd. Didn't people usually bury the dead in their best? Why hadn't Victoria's husband had her buried in something pretty?

"Do come in," Victor said, shooing away these uncomfortable thoughts. He sat back down at his desk, feeling as though he was quartering himself in a fort. A safe spot. His thoughts and emotions were swirling. The only way to keep them still was to focus. "How may I help you?"

"If you please," Victoria said, coming up to the desk with her papers still clutched to her chest as if the sheaf were a shield. She too used a studied, businesslike manner. "I've an appointment with a Mr. Septimus? Under Smith. Mrs. Smith. Or...perhaps Lady Bittern."

Her tone was strange when she said this last. There was something very close to a sneer in her newly husky voice. The tone surprised him so that he looked up at her. Victoria's expression wasn't sneering. In contrast, she looked tired and sad. Defeated.

Realization didn't so much dawn as strike him with the force of a meteorite crashing to Earth. Bittern. That man from the wedding rehearsal. "Lord Somebody-or-Other," as Mayhew had said. That was the man Victoria had thrown him over for? That day he'd tried so hard to forget came back to him in flashes. Doubtless the man had seemed more mature and debonair than Victor. Perhaps that had swayed her...No, stop, he ordered himself. That way lay madness. He was past his life. He was a married man, now. He was happy. He would not allow old wounds to open.

But Smith, he thought. Who was Smith? Perhaps Victoria had thrown over Bittern, too. Perhaps Victor had judged her all wrong. Maybe he was well-shut of her.

None of your business! Victor shouted at himself. Take the papers!

So he took her papers, rose, and knocked on Mr. Septimus's door to announce Victoria's arrival.

"Vict—Mrs. Smith, sir," he said. Then he stepped aside and waved Victoria in. Still with that tired, resigned expression, she walked slowly past him. Victor shut the door behind her as soon as she was inside the office. He straightened his jacket, closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it, and sat down to work again. Once or twice, to his shame, he found himself tempted to eavesdrop.

Victoria's appointment lasted a very long time. When she emerged from the office, Victor pretended to be absorbed in re-stacking a pile of papers. Uncomfortable, nervous, he continued to move papers about until he could no longer ignore the fact that Victoria was standing before his desk.

"Hello," Victor said.

"Hello," Victoria replied.

There was a lengthy, awkward pause. The seconds seemed stretched into hours. Finally Victor noticed that she was holding out a green slip of paper toward him.

"I was told to have this stamped," she told him, businesslike but kind, a dealing-with-a-shopkeep sort of politeness. Only her eyes, unable to quite meet his, gave her away. Victor understood completely. He was having a hard time looking at her, too.

"Of...of course," he said, trying and failing to match her tone.

When he handed the slip back, he accidentally brushed her fingers with his. And then compounded the faux pas by not immediately letting go. Victoria didn't immediately move, either. Having run out of other things to focus on in the tiny office, their eyes finally met.

And there, just like that, was the old spark. So long ago, and so brief, but profound enough to keep an echo even after death. He could tell she felt it, too. Again, the seconds stretched to eternity. Only this time it was a different, worse breed of awkward. A betrayal sort of awkward.

"Thank you," Victoria whispered. Victor nodded, and she pulled her hand away. For a brief second she looked as if she wanted to say something. Victor fervently wished she wouldn't. Victoria must have seen something in his face, or read something in his eyes, for she closed her mouth and nodded again, brisk. Turning, she held her skirt out of the way of the boxes and stacks of papers on the floor as she crossed the room to the door. Once there she paused, unsure.

"Left," Victor said, keeping his eyes down and needlessly stamping random papers. "Thirteenth door on your right. Ask for Miss Ophelia, she'll help you."

Victoria nodded. She stood there, her green slip in one hand and the other clutching the doorframe.

"Victor, I-," she said from the doorway, "I am...terribly sorry."

Victor shuffled his papers and put away his stamp. He didn't know exactly what she meant. Sorry for leaving him? Sorry he was dead? Sorry for showing up? He met her eyes again for as long as he dared to.

"I'm sorry too," he replied quietly. He wasn't quite sure what he meant by it, either. Sorry for everything.

He waited until he was quite sure she was gone before he slumped at the desk, head in his hands.

0—0

"Oh, Victor dear, you seem so distracted," Emily said that night as they walked to the Ball and Socket. She frowned in sympathy. "Did you have a bad day?"

"No," he replied. "Yes. Well...just long, I suppose."

He should tell her. This was an important something, something married people should talk about. They were friends. They were married. But it seemed so wrong.

You needn't say who it was, Victor argued with himself. Simply that there was a person who...made you sad.

But I would know what I really meant, Victor thought. Emily's giggle cut into his mental argument.

"Where are you going, silly?" she asked, tugging on his arm. Victor shook himself and found that he had wandered right across the square, past the second-hand shop.

"Victor, what's wrong?" Emily asked, serious now. She put her hand to his face. He looked into her eyes, searching for some sort of answer. He saw what he always saw in her lovely eyes, felt what he always felt. A sort of romantic thrill, a promise of fun, a profound disbelief in his luck that a woman so carefree and exciting would be interested in someone like him. Would marry someone like him. Quite overcome, he covered her skeletal hand with his still mostly-fleshed one.

"Nothing," he told her, managing a small smile. "Now that I'm with you, that is." Emily smiled and ducked her head in that charming way of hers. She took his hand, their fingers twining and locking almost of their own accord.

"Let's go have some fun, Victor darling," she said, swinging their hands. "I think you badly need some fun."

Victor, who agreed very much, followed her into the Ball and Socket.

"Goodness, it's quiet tonight," Emily said, trailing her hand along the railing as she descended the staircase. Victor followed her into the bar area, glancing about. Alfred, smoking his pipe and reading by the fireplace, nodded to them. Paul and his roaches skittered to and fro among the bottles in back. A few skeletons Victor didn't know were playing a game of darts.

"The piano is free," Victor said, touching Emily's waist and pointing. Moving as one they headed over. Victor felt better already. He and Emily smiled affectionately at one another, flexed their dead fingers, and began to play.

Music was their language. Playing a piece together they could express their moods, communicate feelings. No words were ever really necessary. This was simply the way it was between them. They'd never sat and talked for hours about their lives and hopes—neither of them had either one. But they made music for hours, laughing and joking as they did so. It was enough for Victor. So when they sat together on the bench now, they didn't need to discuss what they would play. One would lead, one would follow, and they could happily trade roles back and forth as needed.

Their hands crossed each other's on the keys, the tempo of the piece picking up and its complexity growing. Victor was losing his focus. He found himself thinking of Victoria's eyes. He tried to push the image out of his head, to think of Emily's hands there with his, but it wouldn't leave.

Talk of not needing words...He'd looked into Victoria's eyes that day so long ago and felt...right. Understood, even before a real word had been spoken. It was nothing he could express in words. He'd looked into her eyes and thought of a comfortable armchair near a fireplace, of vibrant growing gardens. He thought she'd seen the same. Clearly he had been badly, badly mistaken.

But...even today, after all that had happened, he'd seen something. He hadn't wanted to. But he knew he had. Victor frowned, his fingers slowing, a deep ache in his chest that had no physical source.

"Keep up your tempo, Victor darling!" Emily laughed in a mock-scold, breaking into his reflections and chasing away the image of Victoria's deep, deep eyes. Victor was grateful for it. Every time his unruly thoughts went back to Victoria, he felt that loss and betrayal all over again.

"There, that's much better," Emily said with a smile, looking at him sideways. He returned her look, a wave of affection for her sweeping over him.

This was all he needed. Seeing Victoria had been a shock, that was all. He was married. He was with Emily now. Victoria was none of his business. Victoria had thrown him over, married someone else. It was terrible that she had died, but what could one do? Victor's only connection to her was completing her paperwork tomorrow, and sending it off to the Records Room. That would be the end.

Victor and Emily played on well into the night. When they had finished, Victor swept her into an enthusiastic hug. So enthusiastic, in fact, that her bad eye popped out. Victor laughed through his apology as he picked it up and handed it back to her.


	3. Chapter 3

3

All the next shift at work, Victor kept humming the tune he and Emily had played last night. A polka. He'd never quite appreciated polkas until he began playing with Emily. The previous work shift seemed a long time ago. Time with Emily was always restorative. Even so, and even though he didn't like to admit it, Victoria still haunted him. Her eyes, the only thing about her which death hadn't changed. Those eyes that still seemed to hold the power to stare directly into his soul.

Nothing he told himself did any good, nothing he tried was able to push them away. Perhaps he was her haunting assignment. His very soul. There was a certain poetry to the idea, he supposed. When the idea of having Victoria's spirit intertwined with his for the better part of eternity began to make him smile, he hit himself in the forehead with the heel of his hands and desperately groped for Victoria's file in the in-tray.

Victor held his stamp high, and solemnly rubber-stamped Victoria's paperwork, indicating she'd had her first (and hopefully only) consult with her Caseworker. Then he crossed the room and popped the papers into the chute in the wall which led to the Records Room.

"I wish you well," he said to the papers in a low voice as he listened to them flutter their way down the chute. Victor sighed, brushed his hands, and sat back down to work. Now he could move on. For good.

All the same, he found himself forced to chide himself over and over as he worked through case files—she's none of your business she's none of your business stop wondering about her she's none of your business don't think about her eyes...

"Memorandum!" called an echoey, ethereal voice from the pneumatic tube in the ceiling above Victor's desk. Victor looked up just in time to be hit square in the face with an incoming canister.

"Why is that in the ceiling?" Victor asked the empty room at large, not for the first time. He rubbed his nose out of insult more than injury. Then, with a sigh, he popped open the canister and plucked out the sickly yellow memorandum.

RELOCATION REQUEST DENIED. PRISON HAS REACHED MAXIMUM HAUNTING CAPACITY. "LADY IN GRAY" BETTER SUITED TO MANSION SETTING. CLIENT V. SMITH TO REMAIN AT ORIGINALLY ASSIGNED HAUNTING LOCATION.

Prison? What on earth...? Victor frowned and read over the message again. What was meant by original location? As if in answer to his question, a facsimile of a very old drawing of the Everglot mansion in the village had been included in the tube along with the memorandum.

Gently he held the drawing between his fingers, remembering. In life he'd climbed those stairs. He'd crawled up the trellis. With a desiccated, cobalt-blue fingertip Victor touched the window he knew had been Victoria's. Perhaps it still was, if the paperwork was any evidence.

But the prison, he thought, glancing at the memorandum again. What's this about a prison? Very troubled, Victor sat back in his squeaky chair and stared at nothing. After a while the inner office door opened and out shuffled Mr. Septimus.

Tall and broad and well-dressed in a suit from about twenty years ago, Mr. Septimus still bore the evidence of the six-storey drop that had ended his life. His legs bent at different angles, making his gait halting and cockeyed. A disjointed spine meant his top half was always listing backward and moving at a different pace than the rest of him. While Victor would never ever say this aloud, Mr. Septimus resembled nothing so much as one of those wooden dolls whose joints where threaded together on strings. He moved like one as well, clacking and all.

"Memorandum for you, sir," Victor said quickly, scooping it and the drawing up and handing it over.

"Ah, the poor thing," said Mr. Septimus with a sigh after he scanned the message. He crumpled the memorandum in one fist and tossed it toward the overflowing wastebasket. He missed. "I know one shouldn't let it be personal, but all the same...Hers is a rough case, quite rough. Too bad we weren't able to help her with relocation. Doesn't even want to be a ghost at all, she doesn't. Seems to think she's being punished...Very sad business, what happened to her. Don't you think, Van Dort?"

"Sir?" Victor asked, confused. Mr. Septimus heaved his upper half in Victor's direction, broken spine crunching.

"You mean to say you don't know?" Mr. Septimus asked in return, sounding surprised.

"I—Well, no, sir," Victor replied. "How would I know what happened? I wasn't there. I was here. Sir."

Mr. Septimus's words swirled in Victor's brain. Rough case...punished...very sad...Mr. Septimus's tone was the one he saved for cases that were worse than normal. Death was business as usual, so there must be something else. The thought made Victor feel an echo of nausea. Indeed, it almost seemed that his dead organs wrenched, particularly when he thought of how Victoria had looked yesterday.

"You mean to say you didn't read her file? You're a rather big part of the story," Mr. Septimus said, eyeing Victor carefully. "You know those things always have more information than we need. Or want. I'm surprised you weren't tempted to read it."

A queer mix of embarrassment, elation, and misery cascaded through Victor's dead body. All he could do was look down at the hefty file in the in-tray. He stared unblinking at the words on the top, reading them over and over. "V. Smith." "14-7-71." "14-9-91." "LIG."

"Though the more I think about it," continued Mr. Septimus, "I do know a bit about how love can go off the rails. Perhaps you didn't want the memories." And he flexed grotesquely, making his broken back pop and snap.

"No, I didn't," Victor agreed softly. There was an awkward pause, which Mr. Septimus broke with a cough.

"Back to work, then, Van Dort," he said as he creaked and shuffled his way back into his office. "I want to get a jump on that Hampstead Horror business."

Victor nodded, barely hearing him. At the doorway, Mr. Septimus paused.

"If you do decide to read it," he told Victor in a confidential tone, "I'd call it training. You're an assistant, you should know these things. And be sure you read between the lines. Important skill for a Caseworker."

0—0

Victor slumped through the makeshift doorway in the wall that evening like a man with a secret. He was a man with a secret, and a poorly kept one at that. With Victoria's file tucked into his jacket he looked as though he was smuggling a Bible.

"Evening, darling!" Emily trilled, coming up to meet him. Scraps was about tonight, too, and with a bark he clickety-clicked his skeletal way over with her. Lightly Emily kissed Victor's cheek as the dog inspected his shoes. As she did so Victor sidestepped, just a little, so that she wouldn't notice the file hidden in his coat. Emily seemed unpreturbed as she swiped at his cheek with her thumb.

"Sorry, grave dirt!" she laughed, and Victor feebly joined in. Together, with Emily's arm linked through his, they sat down in Emily's coffin. Scraps jumped up and sat between them, bony tail tapping against the upholstery.

"What shall we do, now you're home?" Emily asked, eager as always. Victor found himself thankful the dead could not grow weary. "We could take a stroll, sit in the square? There's always someone out and about to talk to, it's not as though it would be just us alone-"

"Actually," Victor cut in gently, "I think 'alone' sounds just fine. I've...uh...had to bring a bit of work home." And he patted his coat and did his best goodness, what can you do? eyeroll. Emily just stared at him, thumb pressed to her lips.

"Oh!" she said after a moment, her smile faltering a little as she pulled her arm away. "Yes, okay. You've never had to bring anything home before. How dreadful and boring for you. Are you quite busy at work?"

"Oh yes!" said Victor, aware even to his own ears he was overdoing it. "Busy, busy, busy. Quite a headache, but...we do what we must."

Emily nodded. "Yes, and it's good work, too, like you said." Her face brightened again, and she reached to scratch Scraps' skull. "We can be alone, if you like."

Emily settled herself more comfortably, Scraps half on her lap. She scratched the dog's chin and cooed at him. As the dog's skeleton tail beat rhythmically against Victor's leg, he wondered what to do. Again, he found himself fiddling with his tie. A bit of rotting fabric came off on his fingers.

"Er, actually, um, Emily," Victor said, uneasy and feeling like the worst cad. "W-when I said, 'alone,' I meant...alone. Just me. If-if that's all right."

Emily's smile faltered again, and disappeared for good. Hurt was clear in her eyes. She looked away from him, frowning. Abruptly, she stood, tugging the train of her dress out from under a surprised Scraps.

"Quite all right," she replied coolly. "I'll just go to the Ball and Socket by myself, shall I?"

"I'll meet you there," Victor said weakly. Emily refused to look at him. Her mouth was pulled down into a petulant frown. Pointedly, or so it seemed to Victor, she examined the wedding ring on her skeletal finger.

"Okay," she said, tossing her head. Chin held high, she strode past him and headed up the alley. Victor watched. Even when he was in trouble with her, it was hard not to admire how elegantly she strode, so tall and long-limbed, the train of her dress fanned out behind her.

"See you soon," Victor called, falsely chipper. Emily didn't even turn around.

"Fine," she called back as she turned the corner, using that tone which meant it was emphatically not fine. Victor sighed.

"She'll get over it," he said to Scraps, feeling very guilty. The file was practically burning a hole in his coat. Then, remembering the odd connection Emily seemed to have with Scraps, Victor patted the dog's head and added, "Why don't you go, too, boy? Go play in the cemetery with that friend of yours, that stitched-up little dog. Go on, boy, there's a good boy."

Scraps whined, plainly realizing something was up. When he saw Victor was serious, though, he scampered off in the direction Emily had gone. At the head of the alley, Scraps turned and whined again. Victor gave a half-grin and made a gentle shooing motion. Scraps tilted his head, and trotted around the corner, skeletal tail dragging.

Quickly he glanced about to make certain he was alone. Skeletons had a way of popping up out of nowhere. The dead had few boundaries. Just as a precaution, he stuffed his mildewed old handkerchief into the little hole in the alley's red door. Maggot and Black Widow liked to use it as both hidey-hole and visitor's entrance. Judging by the look on Emily's face, and the way she'd stalked off, he'd have plenty of time to satisfy this very wrong curiosity of his. Then he'd meet her at the Ball and Socket, as promised. He'd play a special duet with her. Perhaps even kiss her remaining cheek, if she'd let him. Anything to make it up to her.

Wrong as it was, he was going to read Victoria's file. He was still part of her story. He wanted to know how that part played out. And this prison business, and this extra name of hers. The sick way she looked, the sick way she sounded. Victor had to know what had happened to her. What had he left her to, up there in the land of the living?

He pulled the file from his coat and set it on his knees. Everything about her was in there. Her life before him, her brief time with him, her life without him, and her death. These files were the closest thing Victor had seen in the afterlife to what he'd heard described Upstairs as The Book of Life. All destined for the world to come, every single person who ever had been, was, or ever would be, had a file. Many were thin, packed away and forgotten in the labyrinth of twisted hallways at the offices. Relatively speaking, only a very few had nice thick files, recording their deeds and their lives in intimate detail. More than the office needed to know, really.

Clutching Victoria's file, he was glad it contained more than he strictly needed to know. For a long while he sat and debated. He read the bullet points of essentials on the front over and over again. Peeking in a few pages, he saw that Victoria's file actually picked up on the night of her wedding. The night that should have been their wedding. Something deep inside him twisted uncomfortably.

Even just glancing, Victor was struck by how much he was able to "read between the lines"-he felt such a mental and emotional connection with the words, he could see clear pictures before his mind's eye.

Was he prepared for this? He knew full well it was unethical, that he didn't deserve to know what this file contained. He would very likely learn things he didn't want to know. How badly did he want to satisfy this curiosity?

"Badly enough," he decided. He opened the file and began to read.


	4. Chapter 4

V. SMITH-CASEFILE #4,909,897,865 LIG

-1-

When Victoria opened her eyes she found herself on the floor of a carriage, head feeling as though it would burst. Sprawled there in her wedding dress, she barely managed to turn her head to one side. Every jolt and bounce of the carriage hurt. It was still very dark. She closed her eyes again.

Snatches of the day and night came back to her. Barkis. Mother instructing her to make herself presentable. Father telling her they had no choice—without her marriage they would be forced penniless into the street. Her wedding. The dead. Victoria had tried to leave him. Barkis had shaken her, shouted at her, and in a growing rage of her own Victoria had pushed him away and turned to leave. But Barkis had been quicker than she.

You are my wife, he'd snarled, squeezing her arm until she felt sure it would snap in half. I will not leave here empty handed.

Victoria opened her eyes again and looked about as much as she was able. There was a faint whiff of fish coming from the upholstery. And she remembered. This was the Van Dorts' carriage. Barkis had dragged her from her parents' house after the dead had departed, using the back way. There was not a soul about. Victoria caught a brief glimpse of a whole parade of villagers, living and dead, heading for the church. Her heart leapt, and just as quickly sank, at the thought that perhaps Victor was there, if those from the land of the dead had risen. But even if he were...what was there to be done now? And would he even want to see her, now that she had married another man?

On their way through the wood on the other side of the river, she and Barkis had stumbled upon the carriage and the horse in a little clearing just off the main road. The wheels were stuck in a patch of snowy mud, the horse seeming tired but unperturbed. No sign of Victor's parents, no sign of their driver. The fish that had adorned the carriage's roof had been broken. Barkis used his walking stick to beat it the rest of the way loose, muttering something about identifying features and getting out of this place as quickly as possible.

Ah yes, now she remembered. Victoria put a tentative hand to her forehead, trying to soothe herself. She'd tried to make a mad run for it, breaking away from Barkis' grip and making for the church. That's where everyone was, living and dead. The entire village. Surely someone would help her.

She'd not been lucky. Barkis had seen her move to escape, and he'd rounded on her with the walking stick. Victoria had felt it connect with the back of her head, and then her vision had gone white. Then nothing, until now. The carriage stopped. Footsteps. The snap of the doorlatch. Blinking in faint light she hadn't expected, Victoria looked up to see Lord Barkis standing there.

"Where are we?" was her first question. He didn't answer her. The carriage rocked as he climbed in and shut the door behind him. Barkis knelt down next to her. Victoria tried to edge away, but she was out of room. Standing seemed out of the question. With rough fingers he reached and pulled the Everglot crown from her hair, veil and all. Victoria felt a few hairpins come loose, and felt strands of her hair begin to slide from her bun. He glanced over the crown with an appraising eye, and then nodded.

Barkis grabbed at her skirts, touching the fabric. Wondering, Victoria could only stare. She still felt foggy, confused.

"What is this?" he asked, examining her hem. "What is it made from?"

"Tablecloths," Victoria replied dully. From what little remained of her trousseau, in fact. Her parents had been unable to afford material for her wedding dress. They'd barely been able to afford the seamstress. Victoria had done most of the detail work herself. For a brief few hours, she thought all her hard work had gone toward a happy, momentous occasion.

"Never mind, it will fetch a good price," he said. Seizing her roughly by the upper arms, he hauled her onto the seat.

"Remove it," he ordered. Victoria stared, aghast, and put a hand to her neck. "Now."

Victoria frowned, but did not flinch. Her head had begun to clear, though it still throbbed. With deliberate fingers she unbuttoned her bodice. Then her skirt. She stared directly into the brute's eyes the entire time. When she was down to her combinations, corset, and petticoats, she handed her husband her wedding dress. Victoria was beginning to shiver. Whether from cold or rage she wasn't sure. Both.

"I've an errand. Don't go anywhere," Barkis said, cruel and amused. Before he left he gave her a sweeping look that nearly felt like a groping hand. Well, let him look. Victoria didn't care anymore. He swung the carriage door shut with a snap.

Victoria sat, and waited. She tried to plan her next move. Closing her eyes against the pain in her head, she took stock. She could not run. She hadn't any idea where she was. Besides, she only had her underthings on. Anyone she met would take her for a madwoman. And they'd haul her right back to Barkis. She was so tired of fighting, of struggling, of losing. So tired. It was easier to give up, give in. Victoria touched the sore spot on the back of her head.

The opening of the carriage door startled her. Barkis threw a ready-made dress at her.

"Make yourself presentable," he said. "We're walking the rest of the way."

Victoria pulled on and buttoned the dress, which was frayed and patched and a little too small. She stepped out of the carriage, and immediately Barkis took her elbow in a vice-like grip. Victoria tried and failed to tug herself free.

"I won't run," she said, her swiftly rising temper plain in her voice. Barkis merely tightened his hold, making her wince.

"I don't trust you," he replied. As he was quite right not to, Victoria said nothing more. She allowed herself to be manhandled as she looked around, trying to figure out where she was. Nothing looked familiar. There was more snow still on the ground here, the very early dawn light glinting off of the few rooftops of the very tiny town they were in. It was smaller than home. They had stopped next to what appeared to be a livery stable.

With his free hand Barkis took hold of the now unharnessed horse's bridle. With a quick and easy stride he led them to a little shack next to the stable. When he spoke with the hunched little man in the shadows of the shack, his entire manner changed. Victoria stared. He was charming and deferential, explaining how he and his wife, please excuse her appearance, had no more use for this animal. Had the gentleman a price? Smiling, Barkis took the man's money. By the time he was steering Victoria down the main thoroughfare of the town, his expression had grown dark again.

Victoria's heartbeat quickened. What sort of creature had her parents sold her to?

Money now in hand, from the horse and Victoria's wedding outfit, they made for the little train depot on the far end of town. Victoria thought about making another break for it, but Barkis seemed to sense it. This time, he nonchalantly produced a wicked-looking little knife instead of his walking stick. Eyes widening, Victoria took the implication, and resigned herself to whatever might lay ahead.

-2-

As a chilly afternoon set in, the train arrived in the city. Victoria only managed a glimpse of her surroundings as Barkis hustled her through the station, down alleys, and across busy streets into the seediest end of town. Despite herself she inched a little closer to him and his knife, just in case something worse than him might be lurking in the shadows. Everything was gray here. The buildings sat like crooked teeth in a filthy mouth, covered with grime and soot. The air was thick and discolored.

Before a tiny, grim, tilted one-story house, they stopped. Barkis produced a key and opened the door, which creaked and groaned. Without ceremony he shoved her inside before him.

It was almost colder in here than it was on the street. The room was gray and dingy and heavy with the musty scent of disuse. The floorboards were wide and warped. In one corner there was a bedstead, wooden and looking terribly old.

"Home sweet home," Barkis said, shutting the door and throwing the bolt. To Victoria, it sounded like the door of a jail cell being slammed closed behind her. Thus her married life began.

Not that she felt particularly married. After the first two nights, Barkis was hardly ever home, which suited her fine. For days on end he would disappear. When he came back he'd behave as if he'd never been gone, and would never talk about where he had been or what he had been doing. At first Victoria was terrified to be alone in an unknown and dangerous neighborhood, with no idea about housekeeping, no idea where the shops were, and no access to money.

The first time Barkis left her to wake alone, she simply took to her bed for the entire day. Unsurprisingly, this got her nowhere. Eventually, she realized that she had to get on with things.

First and foremost was money. Barkis had left her with nothing. She had no food, only the one ill-fitting dress, and an absent husband. Soon enough she would learn that this lot of hers was very common on this crooked, dark little street. Normal. At least she knew about being poor. Genteel poverty, yes, but the basic principles were still the same.

The entire point of her marriage had been to obtain money for her parents. Barkis had no money at all. Even if he did he certainly wouldn't share it with her, nor send it to his in-laws. Victoria needed money, straight away. As soon as she could buy postage, she would send word to Mother and Father. Surely they'd save her. Do something for her.

As to why a lord, even a down-at-heels one, had brought her to a place like this, Victoria eventually figured it out. Out of necessity she'd introduced herself to the man at the rag shop as she sold off her last extra petticoat. He knew Barkis, but not by that name. Clearly a gossip, the man had let a few bits of information drop to the ignorant Victoria.

"Lord Barkis Bittern." What a laugh. He was no more a lord than the man who pushed the chestnut cart two streets over. Nothing but a crook, it appeared, and a good one at that. The neighborhood treated him with the same sort of respect and deference as they would a member of the nobility. Victoria learned that her husband's actual name-or at least, the name he used here-was William Smith. Commonly known as Razor Bill, for reasons Victoria did not want to know about. Though the register in the village called her Lady Bittern, Victoria was now called, and eventually easily answered to, Mrs. Smith. It wasn't hard, with Victoria Everglot seeming miles and years behind her life now. She'd lost everything else. Why not her name, too?

Through the ragman she found a way to pick up a bit of money. Every now and again she would bring in mending to do at home. She was talented with a needle, she might as well be paid for it. Mending was how she'd made her one friend, a girl from upstairs at the tavern down the street named Polly. Polly had had an overly enthusiastic customer quite ruin the bodice on her working dress. She'd brought it to Victoria to mend, and the pair had fallen into conversation. Polly was younger than Victoria, sweet with red hair and an accent that reminded Victoria of Hildegarde. At least once a week Polly would bring something small for Victoria to work on, and stay to chat.

"You can't be bringing in enough scratch to keep up this place and send to your folks," Polly told her one day, after Victoria had divulged a bit more of her history and situation. Polly watched as Victoria, with nimble fingers, fixed the lace hem on a petticoat. Then she added brightly, "I can look into something at the tavern for you, if you like!"

Startled, Victoria lost her concentration and pricked her finger with her needle. Bleeding fingertip in her mouth, she stared at her friend and tried to figure a polite way to explain she was not yet that desperate. Polly noticed her look and laughed.

"No, you silly sausage!" Polly said, swatting at her playfully. "You don't want to do what I do, trust me."

Victoria bit her tongue, but wanted to tell her new friend that she'd already done exactly what Polly did. The wealthy simply put a different name to it. But she agreed, and soon enough Polly found her a situation as a barmaid in the tiny little rathole just around the corner. The owner had been loath to employ a married woman, but Victoria was canny enough by now to drop her husband's name. Within the afternoon she'd donned an apron and pulled her first pint. It wasn't that bad. She could do this.

When Barkis—she couldn't get out of the habit of referring to him as such in her mind—finally made an appearance at the end of her first week of work, he came through the door quite livid. Apparently he'd stopped first at the pub before coming home, and had learned of their new barmaid. The one who'd dropped his name. He'd jerked her up from her chair by the tiny grate, took her by the upper arms, and shook her hard. Victoria kept her gaze steady and her face calm. This was quite his favorite thing to do to her, and she was used to it.

The moment the shaking stopped Victoria pulled a purse from the pocket of her dress and held it up for him to see. Then she tossed it onto the floor at his feet. After a moment he let her go, retrieved the purse and swiftly counted its contents, and then put it into his pocket. Victoria had already hidden what she intended to send to her parents and what she intended to keep for herself under the mattress.

He never said a word about her working after that. In fact, he made certain that he was home each Friday to collect her money, no matter how long he'd been gone. Life continued as had become usual. Largely solitary, filled with work and memories and occasional moments to be relatively thankful for.

-3-

Work got her through her waking hours. The memory of Victor got her through the rest.

Oh, Victor. Her Victor. She could still feel his fingers wrapping about hers when he'd taken her hand. That sweet way he'd looked at her, with those wonderful eyes that seemed to look into the very heart of her, when they'd first met. The piano. How he'd touched her face and told her he felt he should be with her always. The last word she'd heard from him was her name, shouted in desperation, a cry for help. And Victoria had failed him. The dead woman, the corpse bride, she'd spirited him away to who knew where. A captive. Who knew if he was hurt or held prisoner or worse. And Victoria had been unable to save him. She would never forgive herself for that failure. For leaving him.

Though she knew she had no right to think about him, not after what she'd done, Victoria couldn't help herself. Dreaming kept her sane. Alone in the dark, behind the grimy windows of her new home, tucked up as best as she could manage beneath thin blankets, a little knife Polly had gifted to her under the pillow for protection, Victoria would fantasize. About what her wedding to Victor would have been like. What their house would have looked like. Embraces. Babies. A future. The fantasies were as melancholy as they were comforting. What would Victor think, to see her this way?

Four nights every week, Victoria was at the tavern. If only Mother could see her now! Pulling pints as if born to it. A lady of the night for a friend. Mother probably didn't mind the money. She'd be all right ignoring where it had come from. Victoria sent money and letters dutifully, but had never had a letter back. It had been a long time since she'd been able to set hands on a newspaper. Her world was the tavern, her street, her daydreams. Often she wondered about the village. If she'd ever see it again. If she even wanted to. She focused on pulling pints, mixing gin with bitters, shucking oysters. The routine helped to banish rogue thoughts.

Victoria was far from the only working woman among this class. However, her voice and manner set her apart. So men still commented.

"Eeper Weeper, chimney sweeper," sing-songed a tipsy laborer one night. He lightly grasped her by the wrist after she put down his pint. Victoria fought the impulse to jerk her hand away when he held her hand up to his face, breathing warm beery breath on her fingers. The man examined her wedding ring as if through a loup. "Had a wife and couldn't keep her!"

Laughing, he let go of her and took a swig of his beer. Over the rim he tipped her a wink. Victoria decided she'd had enough for now. Making a quick excuse about seeing to oysters, she went through the curtain to the back room, pulling it to behind her.

Had another, didn't love her, Victoria finished silently to herself, and up the chimney did he shove her. She sank down on an overturned bucket beside the oyster barrel and buried her face in her hands for a long while, the sounds of the tavern swirling around her.

Victoria touched her wedding ring. It was the one that Victor was supposed to have worn. It was identical to hers. The one she'd last seen on the finger of a dead woman. Her parents hadn't had any other ring to use—all of the family jewelry had been pawned long ago. Wearing it made her feel closer to Victor.

She had been strong. She had been dutiful. She had tried. Now she just had to keep going. Victoria steeled herself to head back out to the drinkers when a soggy newspaper tossed carelessly on a low shelf caught her eye. A very familiar face was looking back at her. A face she'd grown up seeing often. A face she had once thought she'd wake up to every day.

"Oh, Victor," she whispered. Gently, taking great care not to tear the soggy paper, she looked into those features she'd loved so much. Then she glanced at the one readable word in the headline.

SUICIDE.

For a moment Victoria quite forgot to breathe. It felt as though an icy fist had grabbed her round the heart, and was squeezing for all it was worth. The paper was too damaged for most of the story to be legible. An obituary was promised on page three. Victoria squinted at the paper, trying to make out the story through the running newsprint. Dead gathered in the church. Wedding ceremony. Poison.

Wedding ceremony. Victoria remembered the corpse bride showing her the ring on her finger. I'm his wife...

Dull, hollow, wanting to sob but unable to, Victoria sank to her knees, the waterlogged photo of Victor cradled in her hand.

Mother had been right. He was gone. And he'd wanted to go. Victoria's breath caught and her cheeks grew warm, but still she did not cry. What was done was done. It was too late. It had been too late for her and Victor for a very long time. With one finger she brushed Victor's forehead in the photograph, and then his dark hair. How she'd wanted to see what it felt like to run her hand through his hair, once. She should have taken her chance while she had it.

Too late.

Checking to be sure no one was about, she quickly turned her back to the doorway and unbuttoned her bodice. With a bit of difficulty she managed to tug the top of her corset a bit loose and push aside her chemise. Carefully, tenderly, she secreted the clipping against her breast, just above her heart. With speedy fingers she buttoned up again and smoothed down her dress, her palm lingering just a little over the spot where the damp newspaper clung, chilly and moist, to her skin.


	5. Chapter 5

4

Victor looked up from the file and stared into space. After a moment he realized he'd put his hand over his unbeating heart. Over that pocket where he'd once kept that sprig of jasmine.

"That's not how it was supposed to be," he said out loud, just to get the words out of his head. "That's not how it was supposed to be."

Victoria was supposed to have been in love. Victor had always assumed that could have been the only reason she'd ever thow him over—that she'd unsurprisingly found someone more suitable, someone more dashing and handsome, a wealthy nobleman who'd swept her off her feet. Someone who made her happy. Victoria was supposed to be alive and well and living in a beautiful house with a brood of children and a puppy and a husband who loved her as much as Victor had. And then, when she had passed, it had been quietly and painlessly and everyone mourned her as she deserved. Devastatingly hurtful as that was for Victor, at least that scenario gave Victoria a happy ending, at least for a little while.

Gave them all a happy ending.

But now he knew the truth. He'd abandoned her in a desperate situation. He'd failed her. He was dancing and laughing with not a care in the underworld while she...while her husband...while she was...Victor hung his head in shame. He hadn't been betrayed. No. It had been quite the other way around, he saw now. He had betrayed her. By even falling a little bit in love with someone else. Victoria was stronger and nobler than he was. Victor was overwhelmed with the guilt which came from not trying harder to return Upstairs. And Victoria spent most of her last time alive thinking she had failed him. After all she'd been through, she still loved him, and she didn't blame him. Though she should. For abandoning her to a man who...who...he couldn't bring himself to put words to it.

Barkis. Again the face flashed into his mind. That brute. Victor ran a hand over the file, patting it as if to comfort it. The images were terrible ones. Victor couldn't bear the thought of Victoria being so badly used. If only he'd been there. He wasn't quite sure what he would have done, but he would have protected her somehow. Once he'd been overcome with the desire to hold Victoria in his arms. During their wedding rehearsal it had been all he could think about. He'd considered, quite happily, how well they'd fit. His initial rage while reading of Victoria's mistreatment had abated as he read. Now all he wanted to do was have one more chance to hold her. Just once. He settled for gently cradling the open file instead.

Most shameful of all was the tiniest little thrill he'd felt when he'd read that she loved him. That she had a moment identical to his, learning that he was lost to her. Victoria loved him. Her sense of duty was what had brought her to the altar, not affection. Victor let himself fully appreciate that he had never stopped loving Victoria. Never once. The full knowledge made him feel a fresh surge of guilt over Emily, as he realized how shabbily he'd treated her. She'd got the wedding she wanted, but not the life she'd wanted. Not with a true love who loved her as she deserved, more than anyone else.

This was all so wrong. So terribly, fundamentally, irretrievably wrong.

"Don't stop there!" cried a voice inside Victor's head. "I have the feeling we're getting to the good part!"

"Maggot," Victor said. That sneak. Victor snapped Victoria's file shut, feeling as if he'd been caught doing much more scandalous with her than just reading her story. It felt more intimate than that, for certain. Victor reached into his ear canal and forcefully tugged out a protesting Maggot.

"How dare you?" Victor demanded as he placed Maggot rather roughly on the ground. Maggot looked up at him, a knowing sort of grin on his big-lipped and buck-toothed mouth. "What were you doing in my head?"

"Hey, a man has to eat," replied Maggot. "Not that there's much in there to snack on."

Victor pulled a face as Maggot snickered to himself. "You shouldn't sit in my head without permission," Victor told him. "It's quite rude. Besides, this file is confidential."

"And why are you reading it, then?" Maggot asked, a sneaky note in his voice. Victor gaped for just a moment before he collected himself.

"It is work," he said importantly. Maggot snorted.

"Nice job if you can get it," said Maggot, leering up at Victor. "Reading stories about ladies. Ladies you once wanted to-"

Victor, overcome, didn't let him finish. With his fingertips he pinched Maggot by his tail end and picked him up, letting him dangle upside down. Victor held Maggot level before his eyes.

"I'd appreciate it if you would leave me to work, please," Victor said stonily, furrowing his brows. Maggot twisted this way and that in an attempt to free himself, but swiftly gave up.

"Fine," he said, swinging gently to and fro. Victor set him on the ground again, where he collected himself with a wriggle. Slowly he began to inch away, Victor watching him closely.

"I'll just go see how your wife is doing," Maggot said, disappearing into a crevice. "And remember: all work and no play..." Then he was gone.

Struck, Victor raised a hand as if to stop him, but then dropped it quickly. What could he do? Surely Maggot wouldn't say anything. Still, Victor felt that deep, uncomfortable wrench again. There was no easy, comfortable way out of this, he saw now. Nothing was uncomplicated any longer. Maybe it never was.

Victor lay down in his coffin, the one Emily had set up and spruced for him. He rested Victoria's file on his chest, his arms crossed over it in something like an embrace.

None of this seemed real. Not his marriage, not even the fact of his own death. Victor hadn't really stopped to think about it before. He really didn't want to start now. He didn't want his eternity to be one of regret or unhappiness or loss. Emily had shown him how sad that sort of afterlife could be. He didn't want to interfere with her happiness, either. The entire point of their wedding was to fulfill her dreams, the ones which had been so cruelly snatched from her. He thought of Victoria then, the life she'd been consigned to. The death he knew was coming for her. What had he ultimately abandoned her to?

Against his better judgment, feeling that he owed Victoria, he flipped the pages until he'd come to where he'd left off and again began to read.

V. SMITH—CASEFILE #4,909,897,865

-4-

Time passed. Victoria quite lost track. One day followed another followed another until everything seemed to blur. Now that she knew for certain Victor's fate, she felt both a release as well as another weight. The pain of not knowing was gone. The new pain of knowing she'd truly never see him again settled upon her in its place. She tried not to think about how he had ended his life. How, she would fruitlessly wonder, could he have done such a thing?

For love, was all she could come up with. Loss of their love for one another-for Victoria refused to believe he'd never loved her, she'd go mad if she allowed herself to think such things, and she knew deep in her heart it wasn't true-or love for his dead bride, she didn't know. Both, perhaps. Maybe he was happy. She hoped he was happy in death. Victoria still loved him so. She couldn't bear the thought of him a victim, held against his will. If they had to be separated, then Victor deserved whatever happiness he could find on the other side.

And Victoria decided she deserved whatever small happiness she could find on this side. Ending her life had never crossed her mind. Surviving seemed her only accomplishment. To give it up would be the worst sort of defeat. Besides, goodness help her, she liked being alive. Though life was not what she had imagined, it was not yet so bleak as to make her want to be finished with it. Her marriage, on the other hand...

With Barkis hardly ever with her, it was easy enough to pretend that he didn't exist. So that was precisely what Victoria did. She worked, wrote letters to Father and Mother, took in her mending, visited with Polly. She was accustomed to being largely solitary, so she didn't feel lonely. What she felt most of all was accomplished. She was taking care of herself. She'd spruced this little place up as best she could afford, even a vase for the little rickety table. Most nights she could afford coal, and she'd pulled together the money to begin making herself a second dress.

Frequently she thought of dear old Hildegarde's last words to her: "The sea leads to many places, dearie. Maybe you'll end up somewhere better."

As it turned out, she had not. But she was determined to make it better.

One night, though, Barkis came home. And he did not leave. One day turned into two, which turned into three, which stretched into a week. Victoria was off her footing and suspicious immediately. It wasn't as if he was cruel to her. Quite the opposite. He wore his charming mask. He treated her with deference, and even when not paying her much attention, which was often, his presence was a calm one. The sort of calm Victoria recognized as the one immediately before a monstrous thunderstorm.

With him about her life was thrown into disarray. She suddenly had to prepare more food. She couldn't dress or undress as freely as she'd become accustomed to. Her letters must be written in secret, lest he say something about it. She warned Polly not to come visiting. When word got out that Razor Bill was back home again, the amount of mending dropped off. Victoria still went to work, but Barkis came with her. All evening he would sit in a dark corner, and Victoria, though she ignored him, could feel his eyes boring into her. As they walked home in the wee hours, he would take her elbow in a gentlemanly way.

All of this made Victoria skittish as a cat. Constantly she waited for the second shoe to drop. She was certain that it would.

One evening at the beginning of Barkis' second solid week sharing the house with her, Victoria was attempting to count out her weekly money for her parents under the guise of making the bed. All of her personal belongings were kept under her side of the mattress. Over and over she tucked in the same section of blanket, feeling about for the crinkled envelope. Could it have been pushed somewhere? Nonchalantly as she could she knelt on the floor and lifted one edge for a peek.

"Looking for something, are we?" Barkis asked. Victoria looked up. Barkis sat at the table, feet propped up on the second chair, a newspaper held up before him. He lowered it only a little, and reached into his jacket pocket. Victoria gaped as she watched him withdraw her money envelope. Even from across the room it looked empty.

"You took my money," Victoria said, trying to keep her voice level. She balled her fists. "You stole my money."

Infuriatingly, Barkis dropped his eyes back to the newspaper. He had a nasty sort of half-smile on his face. "My dear," he told her condescendingly, "I think you'll find you have no money. Everything you earn is mine by right. It was quite wrong of you to try to hide it. Oh, don't look at me that way, I put it to good use."

"It was for my parents!" she cried, unable to contain herself any longer.

"Ah yes, your parents," he sighed. Finally he met her eyes again, and Victoria didn't like the look in them. Still with that tiny smile she hated, he folded his newspaper in half and held it out.

"City edition, dear," Barkis said. "So sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

Slowly Victoria rose. When she was in arm's reach she took the paper from him, and scanned the page until she encountered a familiar name. The story was a tiny box buried in the far-right column, beneath an advertisement for gout medicine.

BANKRUPT ARISTOCRATS FORCED FROM ANCESTRAL HOME

Lord and Lady Everglot, of -, have been forced from their estate after seizure by the Royal Bank. Lord Everglot declared bankruptcy three months ago, and he and his wife have since left the historical Everglot mansion. The once lofty family is now destitute. Their whereabouts are currently unknown, but it is rumored they have gone abroad, with funding from anonymous sources.

The Everglots have one daughter, presently Lady Barkis Bittern. The whereabouts of Lord and Lady Bittern are also unknown.

Some readers might recall this minor baron's name as one associated with the same village which gained a small bit of local notoriety for an unnatural occurrence—now known in some more excitable circles as the The Affair of the Walking Dead.

"No," Victoria whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. After all that. After all of her hard work. She knew what money she made wasn't a lot, but she'd hoped it at least would have bought food or lodging. And her whereabouts were unknown? Victoria had told Mother and Father in several letters precisely where she was.

Oh, she thought, realizing. Of course. Silly Victoria. They do not want your whereabouts known. Lord and Lady Everglot, hoodwinked by a con-man. Their daughter Victoria, a barmaid and seamstress, married to a crook, of a class so low on the social ladder she wasn't even afforded a rung. Mother would die before she'd let such a story get out. Before she'd acknowledge her daughter now. Victoria let her face crumple, but she would not give in to tears.

"I thought you might like to keep the clipping," Barkis said, sounding amused. Now he was examining his very well-kept fingernails, buffing them now and then. "I found that little picture of yours, and thought perhaps you were intending to keep a scrapbook..."

Before he could fully finish speaking, Victoria flung herself across the bed to her hiding spot, all sense of decorum gone. Hands shaking, she felt about under the thin mattress for the newsprint photograph of Victor, which had dried fragile and crumpled. If Barkis had taken it, done anything to it, she would murder him with her bare hands. She would!

Relief flooded through her and left her cold and limp. It was there, just as she'd left it. As her anger dissipated she was almost ashamed of herself, of her thoughts and behavior of these past few moments. Almost. Victoria pulled herself up so that she was sitting in the middle of the sagging bed, her feet tucked under her and her precious photograph carefully held in her hands.

Barkis, his handiwork done and his pride in it plain, rose from his chair and fetched his cloak and hat from the pegs by the door.

"I think I'll take the air," he said, picking up his walking stick. "You needn't wait."

She didn't. The moment he was gone she locked the door and threw the bolt. If he hadn't a key for the bolt, that wasn't her fault. Throat tight with unshed tears, Victoria undressed freely and pulled on her coarse homemade nightdress. Taking her hair down was a matter of unpinning her braid—she'd taken to wearing her hair the way the women in this neighborhood did, braided and pinned up in a coil. She blew out the candle and crawled into bed, keeping well to her side by the wall and pulling the covers close around her.

Once more she cradled the photo of Victor in her hand. Through a feeling of distinct silliness and sentimentality, she raised it to her lips and kissed it. With Barkis home she hadn't had this sort of privacy. Though she had to admit, she felt safer on this dangerous street with Razor Bill in her house. There was at least one perk to having a husband known to be dangerously insane.

Victoria pressed the picture to her lips once more before tucking it into her pillowcase. Then she put her hand beneath the mattress again for her knife, just in case. Victoria frowned, and felt about some more without success. Worried, she got up from bed and knelt on the floor, lifting up the mattress to make certain.

Her little pearl-handled knife was missing.


	6. Chapter 6

V. SMITH CASEFILE #4,909,897,865 LIG

-5-

The sound of the door opening woke Victoria from a light and troubled doze. Barkis was home. She curled up on her side and kept her eyes shut. The door closed again, the bolt secured. The click of the shutters closing. Footsteps. The scratch of a match being struck, and the quality of light beneath her eyelids changed, no longer pitch dark. Victoria pulled the blankets even closer and curled up a bit more tightly.

The mattress moved next to her when Barkis sat down on the edge of her side of the bed. Still as she could be, Victoria willed him to go away. She could feel his eyes on her. He was leaning over her, she could sense it. Finally, unable to take it any longer, Victoria rolled onto her back and opened her eyes.

The fire had gone out and the room was chilly. The darkness was broken only by the guttering candle Barkis had placed on the table. The bed was mostly in shadow. Victoria could just barely make out his outline looming above her.

"Good evening," he said. Victoria woke more fully and sat up a little, propping herself up on her elbows. Wary, she didn't reply. She let her eyes adjust to the dimness. It was the middle of the night.

"I've brought you a gift," Barkis said. Smiling, he pulled a small package from his coat pocket.

Victoria sat up completely and edged backward, until her back rested against the rough headboard. Barkis followed her movement. He was leaning close, looking at her in that way she didn't like. That intense, knowing, possessive way he'd looked at her that night in her parents' parlor so long ago. When he was this close, the look was worse.

Take it back, she wanted to tell him. But curiosity got the better of her. Gingerly she took the little parcel, and unwound the brown paper. It was a little bottle. Scent? She peered at the label.

"Laudanum?" she asked, looking at him. He put one arm across her, pinning down the blankets. He let his forearm rest on her thigh. Even through blankets it was enough to make her skin crawl.

"I'm afraid our association has reached its end," Barkis said pleasantly. "However, you've been invaluable. So I thought I'd repay you by making it easy."

"Making it easy?" she echoed, her disquiet growing. Barkis reached and took the bottle from her, setting it on the tiny bedside table. What little light there was caught the glass and made it wink as he put it down.

"Yes, my dear," Barkis said. He reached and took her hand, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. Instinctively she tried to pull away, but he held on. There was a glint in his eye. "Simply take the laudanum, and go to sleep. You'll simply never wake again. Easy."

Victoria's heart leapt into her throat. Her scalp became prickly with perspiration. With difficulty she swallowed. "I don't understand," she whispered.

Barkis sighed, and leaned ever closer to her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. To someone looking in on the scene, it would appear as if they were having an intimate moment. Though to be in it was to be in a grotesque parody of an intimate scene. Victoria moved her head so that she didn't have to feel his breath on her cheek when he began to murmur to her.

"Nothing went according to plan as far as you are concerned," he said. All the while he kept his intense, almost hypnotic eyes on hers. She couldn't look away. "I'd intended to be rid of you much sooner than this. But then, you surprised me. You began very generously providing me with much-needed funds. My plans would never have come to fruition so quickly without you."

"Plans?" she asked, and he laughed deep in his throat, a sound which sent chills down her spine.

"Well, I do need somewhere to go after…Well, after we're through," he replied, pretending at delicacy. Victoria's heart skipped a beat. "You might as well be the first to know. I'm engaged to be married. Rather, Sir Thomas Marlowe is engaged to be married."

He paused, smiling, to let this sink in. Victoria gaped, and he continued, sounding very pleased with himself, "Yes, I can see how you'd be surprised. But I think you'd like her. A lovely wealthy young widow from the coast, who very much enjoyed the little trinkets bought with your money, dear Victoria."

"And then you'll do this all over again," Victoria spat before she could stop herself. Beneath her fear, she was revolted. Repulsed. She'd been living with this creature. Who, it was plain, was enjoying every moment of this.

Who knew how many other women he'd done unthinkable things to? How many times had he gotten away with it? Now she realized that she had been living on borrowed time. Probably ever since her wedding day. Victoria had to escape, to turn him in, to be sure that he was caught and would never do this again. She thought of the widow he'd been wooing, and hoped the poor woman would have the sense to call the wedding off.

Barkis merely gave a delicate shrug. "One does what one must," he said. Almost gently he began to run a finger up and down the inside of her forearm, elbow to wrist. Victoria felt the urge to be sick.

"My poor, mad wife," he murmured, almost to himself, continuing his stroking. "Delicate to begin with, as anyone from her village would attest. Abandoned by her betrothed, strained by marriage, marring her delicacy with work…why, it all became too much. And then this news about her parents simply sent her over the edge."

Victoria looked at the newspaper he'd handed her earlier, right where she left it on the bedside table. When she looked back at him, she saw Barkis had pulled something else from his pocket. Glinting in the guttering candlelight was her pearl-handled knife. Victoria's eyes widened. Barkis resumed stroking her arm, except now using the very tip of the knife instead of his finger. Despite herself she shrank back, waiting for the inevitable moment when he went ahead and slit her arm open.

But still he continued speaking, softly, and with just a hint of perverse pleasure. "So the poor thing finally snapped. Drank an entire bottle of laudanum, and then slit her wrists, right there in her marriage bed. The papers will love it, dear. Saddest story of the decade. Particularly how her doting husband had tried to care for her in her final days."

Slowly it all began to fall into place. Victoria saw how she had been set up. First he'd been away with his widow, using her money for gifts and for appearances. When he had secured the widow and the widow's money, he came home. Then, all this time with her. Accompanying her to work. To the outside, it would appear attentive on his part. She could hear the neighbors now. Bit out of character for old Razor Bill, they'd say, but maybe that wife of his is a good influence. She always did seem to have a touch of the melancholy to her. They'd find her, just as he said, wrists slit with the little knife Polly would certainly be able to identify. Oh, he was sick. And clever.

Victoria took a deep breath. "You don't need to do this," she said, willing herself to keep calm. "I'll go away. I'll change my name, I'll say we've separated-" But Barkis was already shaking his head.

"I don't trust you," he told her. Victoria closed her mouth and swallowed hard. He was right not to, of course. But she was willing to say anything, do anything, to make it out of this alive.

"So come along now," Barkis said, businesslike. He set the knife aside and picked up the laudanum bottle. "Take your medicine, my dear. Or must I force you?"

Pure panic flooded her then, and all pretense of playing cool was flung to the winds. Thrashing like a madwoman Victoria broke his grip, threw off the blankets, and rolled to the floor on the opposite side of the bed. Quickly she gained her feet, and stood shaking in her nightdress in the middle of the room.

Barkis' face had gone dark now. His charming manner thrown off, he was menacing. Wolfish. Swiftly he was on his feet and advancing toward her. He spread his hands wide, as though in apology.

"I did try to make it easy on you," he said, sounding put-upon. And then, face contorted with predatory zeal, he lunged at her.

She backed away from him, bumping into the sharp edge of the table. The candle wobbled and sputtered. Desperate, she glanced around for a weapon, any weapon. Victoria grabbed one of the wooden chairs and heaved it into his path.

It only caught him up for a moment. With a growl of frustration he threw the chair against the wall. Victoria heard it smash as she made for the door. She'd only just put her hands on the bolt when he seized her from behind and spun her around.

"You simply couldn't make this easy," he snarled. He wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed. "This ends now, one way or the other."

Victoria could not make a sound beyond a squeak and a gurgle. Ferociously she clawed at his hands. She could feel that she drew blood. Still he squeezed, shaking with the force of his exertion. Victoria was fading fast. Her vision was going dark around the edges. Her lungs burned. More feeble by the moment she twisted and clawed, beat at him with her fists. Finally, gathering what strength she still had, she raised her foot and kicked him as hard as she could in the stomach.

Miraculously, it worked. Barkis grunted in pain and loosened his hold enough for Victoria to slip away. Dizzy, she fell to her knees. When she tried to take a breath, it burned. Behind her Barkis was quickly recovering. She had to be fast. Her eyes fell on the fireplace, and then on the poker leaning there beside it.

Her hand moved more quickly than her brain. She curled her hand around the iron poker just as Barkis grabbed her, his fingers digging into her shoulders. Victoria brought the poker around, hard, and hit him square across the face with it.

With a cry he staggered backward, hand to his face. Victoria shakily got to her feet, gripping the poker. Barkis, cheek bleeding from where the sharp point had caught him, roared and lunged for her again. This time she swung the poker down on his forehead.

The crack it made was sickening.

Barkis sank to his knees, cradling his head. Victoria was breathing in ragged, burning gasps, clutching her poker and watching dark blood dripping onto the floor from between his fingers. After a moment he raised his head, and Victoria cringed at the sight. Blood poured in dark rivulets from the dent in his forehead. His eyes were aflame with rage and pain and that mad glint she'd only seen a handful of times before.

"You'll pay for that," he growled. "Oh, I will make you sorry."

To her shock he tried to get to his feet again. She couldn't let that happen. If he stood up, she would die. Barkis lurched at her, and she brought the poker down on him again. And then again. And then she lost count. All she could hear was her pulse slamming, all she could see was darkness, all she could think was I cannot let him stand up again.

At last, strangely calm, she let the poker drop. She only barely heard the clatter it made. Before her Barkis sprawled facedown on the floor, unmoving. It was hard to tell if he still breathed. Victoria didn't stop to check. She realized through her daze that she should find someone, tell someone what had happened. The constable, perhaps.

Victoria made for the door, sliding a little in the slick pool of blood quickly spreading around Barkis' head. She slid her now bloody feet into her boots, and then wrapped her shawl around herself. A cool burst of air hit her as she walked into the narrow, dark street.

As she walked slowly, with only a vague idea of where she was headed, Victoria noticed the few other people out and about were staring at her as she passed. Not one of them spoke to her.

Eventually she ended up at the tavern. Yellow light poured into the street. The late drinkers were still going strong. Chilled in body but still numb in mind, Victoria pulled open the door. Stepping in, she nearly collided with Polly.

Polly, dressed in her finest, had been giggling and leading a young man to the staircase. When she saw Victoria she stopped dead. Beneath her paint she went pale with shock, and she gasped as she looked Victoria up and down.

"Victoria?" she asked, putting her hands on Victoria's shoulders. Victoria tried to say "Hello," but only a croak came from her sore and burning throat.

"Good God!" said Polly's customer, peering round at her. "What happened to you? You're covered in blood!"

Am I? thought Victoria, and looked down at herself. Her nightdress was splattered with gore. She put her fingers to her face and felt tacky spots there, too. Her fingers came away gummy and pink.

Polly shooed the man away, and gently sat Victoria down on the bench near the door. Everyone in the place was staring and whispering. The barman was heading over. Only now was Victoria beginning to shake, the enormity of what had happened sinking in. Compulsively she wiped at her bloody fingers with the edge of her shawl. Kneeling, Polly peered up into Victoria's face.

"What happened, Victoria?" she asked, gently pushing Victoria's hair back from her face. "Oh, darling, what's he done to you?"

"Actually...I did it to him," Victoria managed hoarsely, brokenly. "I think he's dead."


	7. Chapter 7

V. SMITH—CASEFILE #4,909,897,865 LIG

-6-

Barkis had been right about one thing: the papers did love the story. Wherever he was, Victoria was sure, he would most likely be quite pleased to know that most of his plan had worked. Right down to the planted evidence.

As Victoria had freely confessed to her crime, and did not try to claim innocence, there was no trial. Merely a hearing for her sentencing, at which Victoria said little. She let others argue. Was she mad? Was she dangerous? Suicidal? Had it been self-defense?

No, Victoria was entirely sane. Or, at least, sane enough to be held responsible. Yes, clearly, she was capable of homicidal fits of rage. Yes, she was a deeply troubled young woman who had attempted to take her own life at least once before. No, it was not self-defense.

This last question had been the sticking point. Victoria had explained to the detectives, to the lawyers, to everyone, that her husband had tried to kill her. She had the marks on her throat to prove it. She had defended herself.

While the court of public opinion, mainly women, were on her side (or so she was told), the justices did not see it that way. There was no history of abuse or mistreatment. Quite the contrary. And even if there had been, Victoria's "defense" was excessive. The word "unnatural" had been used quite often during her hearing. The violence of it, the sheer explosive passion of the crime, her cool reaction and clear lack of penitence afterward—it was all "unnatural." Women simply did not behave this way. Clearly, there was something very deeply wrong with Mrs. Victoria Smith.

It was at that point that Victoria had given up. She hadn't the strength any longer for fighting. All over again, to be called insane and locked away, unable to make anyone listen to her. Unable to make anyone care. Unable to help herself. No word from home, from her parents or relatives. This time around, she simply sat, silent. She had done murder. She would take her punishment. Let them leave her in her tiny cell for the rest of her life.

The rest of her life, she learned on an overcast Wednesday morning in September, would be five more days. For the crime of knowing and willful murder, Victoria Smith was to be hanged by the neck until she was dead.

The morning after her sentencing found Victoria sitting quietly in the cell which had for weeks been her entire world. She wore the shapeless gray uniform of the prison. The outfit she would most likely be buried in. As had become her custom, she sat upon the flimsy mattress of her narrow bed, staring at the wall opposite. There was no window.

On Monday morning, I will die, Victoria kept thinking. Strangely, she was not afraid. She'd expected to be terrified. But as she sat, contemplating, she was only deeply, deeply sad. Mostly she felt numb. Hollow. She leaned her head back against the stone wall and folded her hands in her lap.

Who'd have thought it? she thought. That this is where I would end? She closed her eyes and saw Victor's face. For a long time she'd not allowed herself her little fantasies of him. But now she decided that they were her only comfort left. She was going to be punished for her crime. Why should she deny herself on Barkis' account?

So she sighed, hugged herself there in her cell, and dreamt of Victor. Their wedding day would have been sunny. He would have worn a gray suit. They would have lit one another's candles, murmured their vows. Victor would have recited them flawlessly, beautifully. They finally would have kissed. Victoria held on to that image and the conjured feeling for a very, very long time.

Footsteps in the corridor broke into her dreaming, and Victoria opened her eyes. The hawk-eyed matron stood before the cell.

"Visitor," she told Victoria. "Fifteen minutes. I will wait at the end of the corridor, sir." This last was directed to someone out of Victoria's sight.

Slowly Victoria rose. A visitor? Who on earth had she left to visit her? The matron left, and Victoria's visitor stepped up to the cell door.

"Mr. Van Dort?" she gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. Shocked and staring, she went right up to the bars. "I didn't...I mean, I never thought...I didn't believe I would ever see you again."

William Van Dort looked as though he'd aged twenty years since she'd seen him last. More lines, more of a hunched posture, the twinkle gone from his eyes. He touched his hat to her. Victoria had no idea what to say, where to begin. The shock of seeing him, there, real, solid, made her feel cold and strange. As if she was seeing a visitor from another lifetime. She waited for him to speak.

"I wanted to say goodbye," Mr. Van Dort told her, his voice sounding older, too. More broken, somehow, in a way that pained her to hear. Victoria swallowed. "I read about all of this, and, well. I thought I owed you a visit, Miss Victoria."

"Thank you, Mr. Van Dort," she said. And then, because she couldn't help herself, she added, "I'm so terribly sorry. I read about Victor. I'm so sorry."

Mr. Van Dort looked at her with watery eyes. "It was a shame," he said. "The whole thing. We got home that night and the crier was crying it. That's how we found out, Nell and I. The whole village just sat by and let the boy-" He broke off, clearing his throat to cover his emotion.

Victoria blinked back tears and swallowed again, waiting for him to continue. After a moment, he said, "We didn't stay long after that, I can tell you."

"You've left the village?" Victoria asked. Mr. Van Dort nodded.

"Moved house, sold most of the business and moved the rest, the whole lot of it," he told her. "Never want to see that village again. We're in the cathedral town, now."

"Oh," was all Victoria could manage. Words could not convey how torn apart with pity and regret she was. Mr. and Mrs. Van Dort had lost their son. They'd left their home. This man before her was supposed to have been family to her. Grandfather to her children. So much was lost. Forever.

"Please, sir," she said, clutching the iron bars of her cell door and leaning close as she could manage, "My parents? Where are they? Are they all right?"

Mr. Van Dort nodded. "Far as I know," he said. "Before we left I gave them a little...donation. Enough to move them, keep them out of the poorhouse, at least. From what I heard they've gone abroad somewhere."

"You didn't need to do that," Victoria murmured, and he shrugged. "Thank you for helping them."

To Victoria's surprise, Mr. Van Dort reached and wrapped his own hand around hers, where she clutched the bar. It was so strange to be touched with a kind hand. A hand from home. At long last, Victoria gave in to tears. Hot and fast they spilled down her cheeks, and she made no attempt to hide them or wipe at them.

"I wish I could help you," he said, and Victoria's tears came even harder. She kept her mouth tightly closed, knowing that if she opened her lips she would gulp and sob. Maybe scream. Mr. Van Dort, after a brief juggle with his cane, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. Victoria clutched it in her free hand.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Victoria," he went on, his tone a quiet and gentle one that she'd never heard from him before, even in their limited dealings. "Mrs. Van Dort and I both. We...well, we wanted you to know that. How very sorry we are."

Victoria nodded, her tears beginning to dry a little. She dabbed at her face with Mr. Van Dort's handkerchief. "I am, too," she replied, her voice thick with tears. She moved her hand so that she could take his properly. He did not object. Instead he held on with a firm, fatherly grip.

There didn't seem to be much more to say after that. So they stood in silence, holding hands through the bars, until the matron came to tell them that time was up.

-7-

Monday morning arrived. Victoria had not slept. Instead she had been preparing herself as best she could. The ghost of Mr. Van Dort's comforting hand was still with her—she'd done her best to remember the feeling. Victor's face before her. Always.

When she was dead, would she see Victor again? Would she be a walking corpse, like Victor's bride? Like the ones she'd seen? Barkis had not got up again, she knew that much. Would she see him, too, on the other side? Would he want revenge? This last thought very nearly made Victoria want to smile. Let him just try, she found herself thinking. She'd already won once. And after today, what else did she possibly have to lose?

Sobering, Victoria thought of what death would be like. Her own personal afterlife. She wasn't sure she wanted to see Victor again. She didn't want to upset him. Or herself. Seeing him again wouldn't accomplish anything. It was too late. Victoria fiddled with her ring.

Please let it be quick, she prayed, not sure who would be listening. And then...please let there be nothing. I'm too tired for more.

The bell outside began to toll. She had no need to ask. It was for her. As the pealing died away, Victoria thought again of how attractive the idea of oblivion seemed to her just now. After her desperate clinging to life, after how fortunate she'd felt, after how much she found comfort in just the simple act of living...it all meant nothing now. She was ready to be finished.

Two guards, both men, collected her from her cell and led her outside. Victoria's senses were assaulted. She'd not been outside, properly outside, in a long while. The men brought her to the yard. Before her was the gallows. The executioner stood waiting, alongside a pastor and a few officials. Victoria was alone, going to death among strangers. Her heart began to thump, and her head felt light.

No one spoke.

Victoria stood quietly, like a lamb headed for the slaughterhouse, and let her wrists be bound. Up the stairs she was marched, upon the trapdoor she was positioned. She shook her head when asked if she had any last words. When the black hood went over her head, Victoria kept her eyes closed. She was beginning to tremble.

In trying not to panic, Victoria found herself hyper-aware of small things. The rough noise of the noose cinching. The smell of her own breath inside the hood. The feel of the rope around her wrists. The breeze around her ankles. These were the last things, the very last, that she would ever know.

I should have taken one last look at the sun, Victoria thought.

And then the floor beneath her disappeared, and she dropped into nothingness.

END SECTION 1.7 V. SMITH—CASEFILE #4,909,897,865  
AFTERLIFE NOTES/CASEWORKER ASSIGNMENT/BURIAL PLEASE SEE SECTION 2.1


	8. Chapter 8

5

As he read the last pages of Victoria's story, the final act of her life, Victor's rotting jaw had dropped so hard that it unhinged itself. Glad his hands could no longer shake, he snapped it back into place. He closed the file slowly and set it on his chest, one hand on top of it as if to keep it from opening of its own accord and spewing forth more misery.

Somewhere along the way, his mind and spirit had refused to absorb any more. He was full. Like a saturated, bloated sponge. Victor lay there, supine in his coffin, lost in a confused swirl of emotion and disconnected thoughts. Miserable as he was, it was nothing compared to what Victoria had gone through. Not even close.

My poor darling, he found himself thinking over and over as he read, a phrase inadequate to express what he felt. My poor darling. Never mind that Victoria wasn't his anything, never mind his darling. Never mind the fact that he'd willingly, happily, married another woman. Never mind his sweet wife who loved him and needed him.

Victor had to force himself to mind her, though. He couldn't bear to betray or hurt Emily, any more than he already had. He'd hurt too many people. For the first time, Victor appreciated how many lives were affected by his marriage to Emily. All he'd been thinking of was one death. He felt his own selfishness keenly now. He'd always told himself he was being unselfish, giving up his life to give Emily the wedding she'd always wanted. But all he'd been doing was running. Victor held up the file once more, looked it over, and then set it beside him.

Victoria. Her parents. My parents, he realized. They hadn't been at the church on the night of his wedding. At the time he'd not even been thinking of them. He'd thought no one would really care if he died, that there was nothing left for him in life without Victoria. Father. What a shock his appearance in Victoria's story had been. Poor Father and Mother. Poor Lord and Lady Everglot. Poor Emily, still dead and married to a man who could never be with her the way she wanted.

Poor everyone.

Victor sat up and got to his feet. He needed to get out of here. Before Emily came back. He needed to be away from this alley, his coffin, Emily's coffin, the oppressive earth overhead, the broken dress form, the red door. Victor didn't know where he needed to go, but he knew that it had to be away from here.

Running again, said a nasty voice in his mind as he snatched up Victoria's file.

Hurriedly he strode over to the wall and knocked three times. It wasn't time to be at work. But he needed to be somewhere where he could think. Somewhere that didn't look like home, or its upside down underworld version.

The door wouldn't appear. Dumbstruck, Victor stared at the unmoving wall. This had never happened before. As he stared into the resolutely solid stone, he was overcome with a feeling of defeat. So much for escape. He'd just raised his fist to knock again when Emily's terse voice came from behind him.

"Victor, darling?"

He closed his eyes briefly, steeling himself. When he turned, Emily was there. Her expression was cool, her arms folded over her chest.

"Is that the story? About that other woman?" she asked without preamble, pointing at the file in Victor's hands. Emily's face was stony as she shrugged. "A little bug put himself in my ear over it. I thought I'd come home and ask you about it."

"Um," was all Victor could immediately manage. Maggot, the little worm. How dare he? "Other Woman" indeed-how could Emily speak of Victoria that way? It seemed worse now than it had before, knowing what he knew now. Victor looked down at the now rather dog-eared file. Perhaps Emily should know, too. For more reasons than one.

Wordlessly, with a heavy feeling of betrayal mixed with a keen sense of rightness, he handed over the file. Emily's gaze was questioning as she took it. Victor looked back at her, resigned. She was his wife, after all. No secrets. She deserved to know. For a moment Emily faltered, as if wanting to give the file back, but then she seemed to come to a decision. She sat down on the step near the red door, opened the file, and began to read.

Victor paid close attention as she read Victoria's file. Every gasp, every whispered, "Oh no," every sniff. The rest of the time Emily's brow was furrowed, a frown pulling at her mouth. After a long time, she closed the file gently, and cradled it in her lap. Victor watched as she stared at it, her lips pressed tightly together.

"This is the most dreadfully sad story I've ever heard," she finally said, her voice thick and eyes downcast. She gave a mirthless chuckle. "I thought mine was tragic."

"Yours is," Victor replied. He sat down heavily beside her, keeping a respectful distance.

"She loved you just as much as I do," Emily said quietly. She ran her skeletal hand over the file, the same way Victor had. As if to soothe it. Then she looked up and caught his eye. Her gaze was searching. "And you loved her, too."

"Yes, I did," Victor admitted, through with subterfuge. What was the point, now?

"Not simply because she was alive."

"No."

Emily nodded, a sense of melancholy coming from her entire being and permeating the alley. Victor's own melancholy matched hers. It felt as though a heavy blanket had settled over them. It was just like that other time, the time at the piano, when all he'd wanted was to make her smile again. To make up for lying to her. To be her friend. When all the while he'd still been in love with someone else. It made him cringe to think how little things had actually changed.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Their marriage wasn't supposed to have problems. Problems, he'd thought, were the province of the living.

"But we're together now," Victor tried, aware of how hollow his words sounded. Emily smiled with only a hint of bitterness.

"Not really," she said, and sighed. "Not truly. I realize that now."

"What do you mean?" Victor asked carefully, having a rather good idea of what she meant. He watched her set the file aside with a gentle hand. Emily turned to him, looked into his eyes, her gaze sad and troubled.

"Victor, this was wrong," she told him. When he only stared, she took his hands in hers. "I see it now. How selfish I was. All of this was wrong. You should still be alive. I had my chance, Victor darling. My life was stolen from me. And then...oh, I stole yours. And hers. You should both still be alive."

Emily's voice broke, tears beginning to trickle down her face. Overcome, Victor put a hand to her cheek. Still he said nothing. He knew she was right. Hadn't he known all along, really, deep down? That this could never work. Particularly when Victor had done it for all the wrong reasons.

"I've always known you didn't love me quite the way I wanted, the way I dreamed of," she went on. Victor, surprised by her candor, let his hand drop, and Emily took it again. "But I didn't like to think about it. You cared enough. You died for me. But now that I see how dreadfully I...now that I know why...that it wasn't simply...Oh, Victor."

Anger was mixed with hurt in her voice now, and pity and guilt flooded him. Victor deserved her anger. Just as he had the first time around, when he'd lied and tricked her for Victoria's sake. And his own selfish sake. He didn't answer. He had no reply. After a moment, Emily spoke again.

"I realize, I wanted someone to live for me, not to die for me. I wanted to live for someone. And that is lost to me for good," she said. With her fleshed hand she held his face, her thumb on his cheek in a sweet gesture he couldn't feel.

"That sounds dreadful," Emily said. "Dreadful and selfish." Victor shook his head.

"No," he told her, fully aware of how badly he'd wanted to share life, a full, happy life, with Victoria. How he'd read her story and become immersed, not a thought spared for Emily. Talk of dreadful and selfish. "It sounds...true."

Moving almost as one they embraced each other, dead limbs entwined, neither able to feel the other. But the gesture of an embrace still brought some comfort. For a long time they sat that way, just holding on to each other. Victor didn't know what else to do.

"What...er...what happens now?" Victor asked into her hair, more awkward and unsure than he'd felt in a very long time.

"I don't know," Emily replied, sounding as unhappy as he'd ever heard her. She pulled away, and then met his eyes. Tears had left tracks on her dead cheeks. His unbeating heart wanted to break at the sight of her.

"I think I'd like to be alone for a while," she told him. With that, she got up and went over to her coffin, where she lay down on her side, facing away from him. Victor nodded, even though she couldn't see him.

"All right," he murmured. It was the very least he could do for her. He picked up the file from where she'd left it, considering.

What happens now?

With its customary creaks, cracks, and groans, the doorway appeared in the alley wall. Mist curled along the ground, that familiar green light emanating from within. Victor straightened his tie and glanced at Emily, who was still unmoving in her coffin. They could speak again later. If they were still speaking, that was.

Victor was through the doorway almost before it had completely finished opening.

0—0

Victor wandered down the long, winding, black and white tiled central hall at the offices. He hardly ever came here. This area was for clients. It was dark, shadowy, a contrast to the yellow light of his own office. Crooked doorways and windows lined the seemingly never-ending walls. The doorways, Victor knew, went both nowhere and everywhere, depending on who stepped through when.

On occasion announcements from Central Office would reverberate through the hall. Skellington party please report to door seven. Caseworker 9 to Central, Caseworker 9 to Central. And so on. Eventually the wailing and moaning from the Lost Souls room met his ears. The shade over the slanted door masked the exorcised ghosts from view. Usually Victor avoided this room, just like everyone else. Death for the dead. Nobody wanted to be reminded of that. Right now, he felt the wailing chorus appropriate to his mood. He leaned against the wall next to the doorway, staring into the pattern on the tiled floor and letting the cries of lost spirits fill his ears.

Emily had been right, and brave enough to speak the truth aloud. All of this had been a mistake. All of it. A terrible, irretrievable mistake. Victor couldn't even look on the bright side of making Emily happy any longer, because he didn't. Not the way she wanted. He'd not realized it before. He didn't think Emily had quite realized it, either, before now.

Afterlife couldn't go on as it had before.

But I don't know what to do! he silently cried, the words reverberating through his rotting skull. Everything was lost. Emily. Victoria. His own life. All he had was this job, his penance. He dug the heels of his hands into his forehead, then set off again down the hall, moved once more by sheer desperation to be elsewhere. If only he could escape from himself somehow...

"Assistant Caseworker Van Dort to Door Seventeen."

Victor stopped in the middle of the hallway when he heard the announcement. When he didn't move, that calm professional voice over the intercom repeated, "Assistant Caseworker Van Dort to Door Seventeen."

But why...? Victor wondered. Before he could even complete the thought, the voice added,

"Door Seventeen, for Inspection Duty."

"But I'm only an Assistant-" Victor began, clutching Victoria's file. Again, the intercom voice cut him off.

"Inspection Training. Door Seventeen for Inspection, Caseworker approved."

Victor frowned. Strange, he thought. Then he shrugged. He'd long ago stopped wondering too much at the inner machinations of the afterlife. So, with a sigh, and a resolve to put on his professional face for the day, Victor made for Door Seventeen. It was back the way he'd come. An out-of-place door of solid oak, fancy detailed handles. Both its shape and color were odd in this hallway of white and shadows. He took the Inspector's badge from the little hook near the door (Mr. Septimus's name had been hastily crossed out and his own written in, he noticed), and fixed it to his lapel.

Maybe getting right to work will help, he thought, and then nodded to himself. He couldn't sit forever listening to the wailing chorus and feeling sorry for himself. After all, he was there at the Offices to give back, wasn't he? And if he couldn't help Emily, and he couldn't help Victoria, he would take what comfort he could in helping other souls. With a pang he remembered how happily he'd told Emily about how good this job made him feel. Would they ever laugh and talk that way again?

Victor ran a hand through his hair, hoping to make himself a bit more presentable, opened the door, and stepped through. On the other side, he found himself inside what had been, in life, Victoria's bedroom.

"Of course," Victor muttered, looking around. Had he expected anything different? Eventually he would have to come to grips with what a convenient universe he lived in.

The place was dusty and dark, with the feel of abandonment. No fire cheered the fireplace. The enormous canopy bed was gone. All that was left was the sofa and ottoman, both covered in a fine layer of dust. The French doors and the windows were boarded over haphazardly, a feature which gave Victor pause.

There he stood in the middle of the room, overcome with memories. Victoria, that smile which had lit up her face. That bone-deep relief and joy he'd felt upon seeing her again. Victoria taking his hand, his so cold and hers so warm and comforting.

On meeting you, I felt I should be with you always...

A wind ripped through the room then, tousling his hair. As he couldn't feel anything, he only noticed due to the whistling noise it made. Even without working senses, though, he felt the change in atmosphere. Looking around, Victor tried to find the source. He looked to the boarded up windows. He looked to the fireplace. Uneasy, and knowing full well it was rather irrational for him to feel uneasy, he looked behind him.

When he turned back again, the source he'd been looking for was right in front of him.


	9. Chapter 9

6

Victor screamed. He couldn't help it. The thing was terrifying. He quickly backed away, holding his arms up in front of him.

"V-V-Victoria?" he managed, lowering his arms just enough for a better look.

For indeed, the creature hanging there in midair before him looked like Victoria, but only just. She was that same dusty gray as she had been in the office, but now she seemed almost to glow faintly in the gloom. Wisps of hair, pulled from her braid, curled of their own accord like snakes around her head. Dark black spots which Victor imagined were blood nearly covered her front. There was a ghastly spray of those same spots on her face. Her face, which was longer and thinner than before. Her teeth looked pointy.

And her eyes. Those were the worst part. Victoria's eyes were completely black. It was as if her pupils had expanded to the outer edges of her eyes, leaving two deep voids. She stretched out a grasping hand and drifted closer. Victor panicked and backed up nearly at a run. He didn't stop until he toppled backward over the ottoman, with a terrified and frankly ridiculous cry of, "No!"

"Victor?" came Victoria's husky voice. Slowly he lowered his arms and peered over the ottoman. "Oh, dear. Do forgive me. I thought you were the estate agent."

Victor pulled himself to his feet to find Victoria standing there before him, looking herself again. "Estate agent?" he asked. Victoria nodded.

"He was showing an hotel manager about the place yesterday," she explained. A dark look flitted across her features. Perhaps he was imagining it, but it looked to Victor as if her pupils got ever so slightly larger, for just a moment or two. His throat worked in an imitation of a gulp.

"Is this my inspection?" Victoria asked, gesturing toward his badge. "I was told to expect one, as I'm an official haunting entity now."

Goodness, she truly had paid attention. Not all clients did. Victor looked down at his hastily scrawled badge. After only a second's thought he took it off and crumpled it in one fist. If the universe, Fate, the Underworld, whatever it was, kept insisting that he and Victoria be thrown together, then it wouldn't be under a pretense.

If they were supposed to be together in this moment, Victor would be present on his own terms. He owed Victoria that much.

"No, I'm not inspecting," Victor told her. And he let the paper drop to the floor.

"Oh," said Victoria, watching the paper fall.

"I wanted to see you," Victor added.

"Oh," Victoria repeated, looking and sounding troubled. She put a hand to her mouth in a gesture Victor remembered from life.

There was an awkward pause. And yet, through the awkwardness, this felt...right. Beneath the history, beneath the complications, Victor felt just the same as he had when Victoria had handed him that sprig of jasmine. As when he'd held her hand. As when they'd sat together in this very room. A deep, deep sense of right.

The truth seemed so clear, now. The two of them were a pair. When they were broken apart, the world was out of joint. Perhaps it was supremely self-centered to believe that, but all evidence so far seemed to suggest that it was true.

Not that he could do anything about it now, of course. Sadly Victor regarded Victoria, there before him in her Grey Lady dress. Standard issue, high-collared and flowing, of every era and no era in particular, a pearly gray that seemed to glow. Victoria was regarding him in much the same way. Was he hoping against hope, or did he see that same sad affection in her eyes?

She'd never stopped loving him. She'd kept a picture of him. It hurt Victor to even think about it, so he pushed the thought away.

"I'm afraid your transfer request was denied," he told her, for lack of anything else to say. His voice came out croaky and strange. Victoria gave a little shrug. Lighter than air she glided past him to stand at the boarded-over window.

"That's all right, I suppose," she said in a low voice. She folded her hands before her, lacing her fingers. "I merely thought that if I was to be punished, it might as well be in the prison."

Victor joined her at the window. Mr. Septimus's words came back to him. She doesn't want to be a ghost...seems to think it's a punishment...Victor knew enough about the Office now, about the afterlife, to know that things didn't quite work that way. Though goodness only knew how it actually worked.

"Why should you be punished?" he asked gently, genuinely curious. Victoria shot him a look.

"Victor. I killed someone," she replied, sounding incredulous. Victor put his hands behind his back and looked at his moldy shoes.

"Yes, well," he said. "He deserved it."

"Even so."

Together they stood before the window, both peering out as much as they were able through the boards. What a pair they must make. A ghost and a rotting corpse. If anyone in the square happened to glance up, they'd probably see the two of them quite clearly. But then, most of the time, the living wouldn't see the dead.

Through the gap Victor could see across the square to his house. Well, his parents' house. Well...not even that any longer. Even from here he could see that the windows were boarded up from the inside. The window in what had been his bedroom, the one he'd liked so much for how easily it opened and gave him air, had a pane or two missing. Somehow those gaps in his favorite window made him sadder than anything else. Though he'd only read the words on offical paper, Victor could hear Father's voice plainly.

Never want to see that place again...The whole village just sat by and let him do it...Victor pushed that thought away, too, unable to bear it. The world was out of joint, indeed, far beyond Victor and Victoria. Everything was broken.

"Why are your windows boarded up?" Victor asked, hoping speech would break the spell of memory. "To keep trespassers out?"

"To keep me in, actually," Victoria replied, giving him a brief sideways glance. Victor thought back to what he'd read, and understood. Everyone thought her mad...locked her away...

All for his sake. He didn't deserve it.

"I read it," Victor confessed suddenly. Victoria looked at him, questioning. "Your...story. I'm so...so sorry."

Victoria stood as if frozen there beside him. Was it his imagination, or did she seem to begin to hover ever so slightly? Did strands of her hair begin to move? Victor watched her closely, aware from his training that new ghosts often had trouble controlling their scaring abilities. Strong emotions made them manifest. For a long time Victoria was quiet, though energy crackled about her.

"I do wonder what happened to Polly," Victoria said at last. Reflectively she ran her gray hand over one of the boards. Much the way she once ran her fingers over a keyboard. "She was the only one who was kind to me. Who helped me. It was a shame to leave her. I never saw her again, after...after that night."

Again they faced the window, peering unseeing through the gaps between the boards. Both of their gazes were inward, it seemed. Victor wanted to remain just here, forever, Victoria beside him. Victor also wanted to run. To never confront her, the village, what he'd done, ever again.

"Victoria, I must...I must tell you," Victor began earnestly, turning fully to her. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say, but he felt the deep urge to say something. But Victoria stopped him with a touch of her fingertips on his wrist. Somehow, he realized with a start, he felt her touch.

"Victor, you needn't," she told him. Victor knew the dreadful cause, now, of that husky note in her voice, but this time Victoria seemed choked by emotion, too.

Their eyes met, and the wave of pure feeling that cascaded over them both was practically tangible, just as his and Emily's melancholy had been earlier. In a single moment, Victor lived an entire lifetime. With the all-encompassing eye of those past the realm of the living, he saw visions as clear as if they were happening before him.

Days, years, decades of full life. Impression and images flashed by, as if he was drowning and his memories were being played before him. In Victoria's eyes he saw the home the two of them would have made, the gardens which would have grown, their lives and beings entwined in the deep of the night, the lives that they could have created together. Victor knew Victoria was seeing precisely the same things in his eyes. Victor remembered her file. Perhaps he was seeing Victoria's dreaming, permitted to see the visions which had kept her sane. It felt intimate. It felt right. Those dreamings were his, too.

With an airless gasp, Victoria let her hand drop. Victor wished for it back. Ached for it back. How, how was it possible for an unbeating heart to break like this?

"Just say the word, Victoria," Victor whispered, daring to reach and try to touch her arm. He stopped just short. "Just say the word. I'll stay here. With you."

"Oh, Victor," Victoria breathed, the merest hint of a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. "I will pretend you didn't say that."

Ashamed, Victor looked at his shoes. After a moment, Victoria spoke again, her voice gentle. "Victor, what is done is done. There's no changing it. There's nothing left for us now. Please, go home to your...to your wife. Be happy enough for the both of us."

Before his eyes she began to fade. Victor reached out a hand, clutching at hers, catching only air. "Wait!" he pleaded, desperate.

"Thank you for coming to see me," she said, her voice fading as swiftly as her form. "Goodbye, Victor."

And she was gone.

Victor stood alone in the gloom, listening to the abandoned mansion creak around him. Victoria was still here, he knew. He could feel her. But she wasn't going to make herself visible again. Victor knew he must respect that.

Mindful of leaving evidence, he bent and picked up the crumpled badge before he left the way he had come.

0—0

Later, Victor sat at his desk, working like an automaton. Sort. Stamp. Bin. Stamp again. Show in freshly dead. Sort more.

Mr. Septimus hadn't said much about the inspection. One look at Victor's face had been enough to halt any questions. Somehow Victor had the idea Mr. Septimus had thought he was doing a kindness, letting him see Victoria again. The thought was a nice one. But Victor could have done without, frankly.

Stamp. Sort. Bin. Whoosh of air from pneumatic tube. Victor leaned to the left so that the canister missed him and fell into his open desk drawer instead. He'd been thinking as he performed his tasks. And he'd realized a few things.

Guilt kept Victoria a ghost. There was nothing he could do about that, as sorry as it made him. No matter who else forgave her, even if she didn't even need forgiveness, Victoria had to come to terms with her own guilt before she could move on.

But move on where? It was a question Victor had never considered before. To the Land of the Dead, he assumed. Oh, imagine, Victoria with a casket right down the other side of the street. How awkward that would be. Particularly after this last meeting between them. What he'd said. Victor sat back, making the chair squeak its familiar squeak. He'd meant what he'd said. Insane and impossible as it was, he would have stayed in that room with her for eternity. Just to have a little taste, a little echo, of those images that had flashed between them. Of life unlived.

I wanted to live for someone, Emily had said. Victor put his hands to his face. What of Emily? In that moment with Victoria, he'd been ready to leave her behind. To never come back. It was terrible, he knew. Yet again he was struck by how shabbily he had treated Emily. Emily, who only wanted her true love to set her free.

"Free," Victor whispered. He looked at the pile of papers on his desk. The dead plant in the corner. The overflowing filing cabinets. The rickety lighting fixture with its greasy yellow glow.

"We'll never be free," he added, hardly aware he was speaking aloud. Yet he knew it was true. Victoria was trapped, haunting her childhood home, trapped by guilt. Emily was trapped in the Land of the Dead, kept there by the lure of a dream that couldn't come true, and now even more firmly tethered by her conviction that she had ruined two lives.

And Victor...

Victor was trapped at this desk. He was the guiltiest of all of them, and nothing he did with his afterlife could even begin to make amends. Trapped by his own selfishness. Trapped by his guilt. Trapped by the knowledge that he had ruined so many lives, including his own. He'd taken so much away from other people and hadn't even considered it.

This was a guilt he would never be free from. And, he felt, he deserved it. Victor took his hands from his face, righted his chair, and began stamping again. As if he could stamp the world back into order.

Mr. Septimus had to come tell him when the shift was done. That had never happened before. Usually Victor simply knew. With a complicated series of crunching sounds Mr. Septimus had laid a hand on Victor's shoulder, but Victor had plastered a smile on his face and insisted that everything was fine, sir. Unsure, Mr. Septimus had watched him leave.

Victor wandered down that winding hall again, past the wailing lost souls, past the many crooked doorways, only slowly briefly when he passed Victoria's door. Then he picked up his pace again.

At the doorway in the wall which led to his alley, Victor paused. The green glow seemed to pulse around him as if it breathed. Victor closed his eyes. What would he find? Would Emily be there waiting for him? Did he want her to be? How could they go on?

This is my death, Victor found himself thinking. He opened his eyes and stared into the green light, into the mist, just barely able to see the alley in the Land of the Dead through the doorway. This is my eternity. I've made it for myself. I cannot run any longer.

After all, where was there to run to? There was no escaping eternity. No escaping death. No escaping consequences. He could never leave earthly concerns behind, he realized now. Not when he remained so tethered to them.

What would true freedom from earthly concerns be like? Victor, uncomfortable with the thought, pushed it aside. He had eternity to think about it.

Eternity. Eternity was a long time. There was no ending to it. Victor would be quite wrong to expect any.

Just that free, easy existence, Victor repeated his own words back to himself, letting himself be bitter.

With a breathless, airless sigh, he stepped through the doorway, back into the afterlife he thought he'd wanted so very much. It would never be the same again. Never again easy. Never again carefree.

The wall creaked and crunched and ground behind him, closing itself up in a very final sort of way.

000-End-000


End file.
